


The Crimson Wings of Summer

by Atri



Series: The Songs of the North [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU after Robert's Rebellion, Butterflies, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R plus L equals J, Sequel, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 50,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2008107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atri/pseuds/Atri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "The Lion of the North".</p>
<p>Summer has arrived in Westeros and the realm is peaceful. But it is a fragile peace. As the North continues its rise, various people throughout the realm continue to plot. The children of the noble houses grow up in a Westeros filled with tension and fear. It will be they who will decide Westeros' fate - for better or worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

#  Jon I 

_“There was once a summer king,_

_frolicking in the summer snows,_

_not knowing either dark or cold,_

_nor hunger, death or other woes...”_

 

_The song echoed all around him as he ran faster and faster. Why was he running? Jon didn’t know, but his long legs wouldn’t let him stop, for a terrible fear gripped his heart and refused to let go. Deep Northern forests passed by him as he ran and ran._

 

_“But know, oh king, that this false spring,_

_with its sweet wines and jolly fairs,_

_was brought to you on crimson wings,_

_blood dripping off them, evermore._

 

_On crimson wings the summer flies,_

_all gold and green and red and blue._

_But know, oh king, this to be true,_

_that there in wait cold winter lies.”_

 

_But he couldn’t escape the song, couldn’t escape the gentle words or the sounds of the lute. Above him, something roared and, as he looked up, an enormous shape flew over him, its wings the color of blood even as its body shone like the purest of freshly fallen snows. Jon ran._

 

_“When winter comes, oh summer king,_

_when laughter and smiles,_

_turn into tears and cries,_

_what will you do, oh summer king?_

 

_Which way to run, which way to turn,_

_which way to flee, on feet or wing?_

_Or will you fight in face of plight,_

_not run away that you may hide?_

 

_What path to take, oh summer king,_

_when hatred burns in human hearts,_

_and cold steel slips through flesh and spines,_

_the lands run red forevermore.”_

 

_The sun disappeared and the forests turned into huge fields covered with the bodies of dying men. Hands reached out towards him, but Jon flinched back, not stopping, just running on. Away. Away._

 

_“On crimson wings the summer flies,_

_all gold and green and red and blue._

_But know, oh king, this to be true,_

_that there in wait cold winter lies._

 

_Which way to run, which way to turn,_

_which way to flee, on feet or wing?_

_Or will you fight in face of plight,_

_not run away that you may hide?”_

 

_The blood on the fields turned into crimson leaves, crunching beneath his feet. Suddenly, he stumbled and fell, face first. The ground was soft and he never wanted to rise again. But now...now the bard was close. Somehow, Jon knew that he was right beside him. With great effort he first got to his knees and then stood. The leaves clung to him like sticky honey. There, on a rock next to the pond, sat a man, his fingers idly strumming chords on his lute, silver hair falling all the way to the ground and into the deep, dark waters of the pond, obscuring his face. Something in Jon told him to stay away, to run, but he couldn’t move. Meanwhile the bard continued his song, as if he wasn’t aware at all of Jon’s presence._

 

_“On crimson wings the summer flies,_

_and dies in battle bold and true._

_And that, oh king, is then your cue,_

_to choose which end Westeros is due._

 

_On crimson wings the summer flies,_

_and lies dead in the summer snows._

 

_Oh summer king turned winter king,_

_pray tell me what should you do,_

_now that winter’s here?”_

 

_The bard looked up and Jon jumped back, falling, as cold blue eyes stared at him from a beautiful, youthful face. But his mouth, his lips were snarling as he sang the last few words._

 

_“Tell me, tell me, winter king,_

_what will you do, run or fight,_

_now that winter’s here?”_

 

_Hands grabbed him by his legs, pulling, pulling. Jon was screaming, pleading, but the blue eyes stared at him, merciless. Someone was calling his name. Jon! Jon! He screamed and..._

 

...and opened his eyes to find Lyan staring down at him, eyes and face solemn. He was a mirror image of Jon himself, if slightly younger. Above him, the leaves of the weirwood rustled in the wind. Jon shivered.

 

“Is it time?” Jon finally asked, voice hoarse as if he truly had been screaming. Lyan nodded and waited for Jon to stand. Together, they began walking out of the Godswood and towards the East Gate, from where Lyan and his mother would depart first to Dorne to show Aunt Obara’s family little Elias and then Lyan would go to be fostered in King’s Landing. The Red Keep, the center of power in Westeros, where kings and queens had ruled and governed...to be fostered there was an exciting thing, though Lyan seemed to be looking at it with his usual stoicism. Now that Jon thought about it, none of the adults seemed all that happy about it, strangely enough.

 

“Are you excited?” he asked Lyan when the silence went on too long and a gust of wind reminded him of his horrible nightmare.

 

“No.” There was a hint of anxiety in Lyan’s voice though, so Jon didn’t believe him. His cousin stopped and so Jon did too. He looked like there was something he wanted to say, but every time he opened his mouth, he closed it again, silent.

 

“What’s wrong, Lyan?”

 

Jon’s question seemed to prompt Lyan to speak, as he finally sighed and then raised his head, meeting Jon’s eyes. They were the same grey they had always been, but somehow Jon was reminded of the cold blue eyes in his dream again, even if there was nothing of the same negative emotions in Lyan’s.

 

“Jon...when,” Lyan bit his lip, swallowed, then nodded, “when the time comes, promise me that you will listen.”

 

“What...?”

 

Lyan gripped him tightly, fingers digging painfully into Jon’s arms. There was such intensity in Lyan’s gaze that Jon couldn’t look away, even as he wanted to.

 

“Promise me that you will not run. Promise me that you will _listen_.”

 

Not run. Jon gasped, heart beating faster. How did he...? No, surely not...but...suddenly, Jon had no doubt that Lyan knew all about his dream. Even if Jon hadn’t told him anything, hadn’t even hinted at the dreams that plagued him. Lyan knew. The urge to run was almost overwhelming, but Jon remained standing, motionless amongst the trees and beneath Lyan’s gaze.

 

“I...I...” his throat was parched, the words not wanting to pass his lips, but he forced them out regardless, “I promise. I swear.”

 

A weight he hadn’t known he was carrying fell from him. Jon’s breath came in short sharp gasps, his head suddenly so dizzy that he stumbled and would have fallen had Lyan not gripped him so tightly. The younger boy was smiling at him, beaming and then hugging him. Jon’s arms reflexively did the same and then there they stood, embracing. Jon’s heart calmed down, his breathing evened out.

 

“Everything will turn out alright,” Lyan told him and Jon believed it.

 

He didn’t know why everything, whatever that meant, shouldn’t be alright or why Lyan felt the need to reassure him or why he himself needed those reassurances. But, suddenly, he believed that, indeed, everything would be alright.

 

As Jon later stood in Winterfell’s courtyard, waving goodbye to his cousin, he hoped that they would see each other again soon.

 

A hand on his shoulder made him turn. Robb was smiling at him.

 

“Come on, Jon! It’s time for lessons!”

 

Together, the two brothers turned away and headed inside.


	2. Chapter 2

#  Theon I 

The wooden sword arched down - fast and brutal - and Theon jumped back, flinching slightly. Had Simeon seen it?

 

“What is that?!” Simeon roared. He had seen it then. “You show fear?! Are you an Ironborn or a greenlander, boy?!”

 

Theon’s hands clenched around his sword, feeling his mouth pull into a sneer. With a yell, he sprang at the man, his feet finally steady and sure on the deck of the _Seastar_ after months of practice and sickness. His charge was met with Simeon’s sword, the man grinning at him as Theon tried to force him back. Suddenly, the pressure disappeared and Theon stumbled forward. He did not see Simeon’s attack, though he felt it vividly as pain flared in his stomach, his body was lifted into the air and thrown some feet backwards.

 

Theon groaned.

 

“Is that all you can do?” The voice came from above him, but Theon didn’t open his eyes. Let this dream end, he thought. Let me wake up in my own bed on Pyke. Let Rodrik be heir. Let me see my mother again, smiling, as she watches me practice my archery. But the dream did not end. “Do you fear pain, boy? Perhaps I should throw you into the sea and let that be the end of it. If you fear pain, you fear death and are thus no better than that pig Robert and his greenlanders.”

 

Theon growled, overcome with anger at the words.

 

“I don’t fear death!” he hissed.

 

“Eh, you don’t, do you?” The voice snorted mockingly. “Well, why don’t you open your eyes and show me then!”

 

Theon’s eyes refused to open.

 

“Come on, Theon Greyjoy! Show me that you are an Ironborn! Show me that you are worthy and not a coward!” A pause. Then, “Nothing? As I expected from such a little piece of shit like you. Do me a favor and go die, why don’t you?”

 

The anger overwhelmed the pain. His eyes flashed open and he stood up, ignoring the agony in his stomach. One hand grabbed the discarded sword and he ran, screaming, at his opponent.

 

“What is dead may never die!” The ancient words tore from his lips, floating on the wind as his mind focused. Around him, he heard the men who had gathered to see his training clap and call in approval, but his thoughts were only on Simeon. His body moved faster than before, his sword whistling through the displaced air. Again and again, he attacked and attacked. He wanted to hurt Simeon, punish him, but his teacher was too good. Every strike was countered, the force of it making his thin arms shake. But Theon did not let up, his fury driving him further and further. Finally, it seemed as if Simeon had had enough. With an elegant twist, Theon’s wooden sword flew through the air before Simeon’s found Theon. Pain amplified, sight darkened.

 

The next moment, Theon found himself lying on the deck once again. Blood was in his mouth and he spat, feeling awful. Two booted feet stepped in front of his vision. Theon gritted his teeth and glared up at Simeon.

 

“Better,” Simeon smirked, “but not good enough for a future King of Salt and Rock. Not nearly enough to be worthy of the Seastone Chair. Remember, Theon Greyjoy: no fear, no hesitation, no mercy. Otherwise, your only future is oblivion.”

 

With those final words, Simeon left. Seeing that the entertainment was over, the other Ironborn dispersed. Nobody tried to help him, as usual, so it took Theon a long time until he was able to move and drag himself to his cabin.

 

“You’re back!”

 

He glanced up and saw Asha put down the book she had been reading and hurry to him. Theon grunted but let himself be led to a stool, where Asha began to tend to his wounds. Since arriving here this ritual had occurred daily. Neither of them looked all that good after the harsh, brutal training that Simeon was putting them through - Asha still had a black eye from yesterday - though his sister seemed to fare better than he. Like so often, Theon suppressed the jealous feeling that welled up in him. Asha was older, taller and more experienced. It didn’t make it easier, of course. As his father’s heir, he should be the best, as befitting a King of the Iron Islands, but his sister was his only family - the only one who supported him here - and for that he could forgive her everything.

 

Asha’s hands were moving slower than they usually did.

 

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

 

She bit her lip, for a moment focusing all his attention on that one spot, before she sighed.

 

“I’m just...I know I shouldn’t think of it, shouldn’t doubt, but...”

 

“...but you’re wondering whether we’ll ever return.”

 

It was something he had asked himself countless times.

 

“Yes,” she confessed, then narrowed her eyes angrily, no doubt furious that she showed such weakness. After a moment, she sighed again. “It’s Rodrik’s name day today. And Mother...”

 

Theon nodded in understanding. They had heard of Rodrik’s death several weeks after the end of what people called the Greyjoy Rebellion. Jaime Lannister had slain his brother while Rodrik had been reaving in the North. Theon had never loved or even liked Rodrik. Balon Greyjoy’s heir had been a violent drunkard, fond of belittling him and giving him “loving pats” that put Simeon’s so-called training to shame. But Mother...Theon remembered the smile his mother had worn on Rodrik’s last name day, the shine in her eyes. No doubt she was devastated by the news and she had none of her children with her to console her. Maron, Theon had heard, was now a captive in Casterly Rock. Theon had never liked Maron either, remembering his cruel japes and how he always got Theon in trouble with his lies. Even the thought of Maron becoming the king or even the lord of the Iron Islands was distasteful, disgusting even. No doubt his brother would be a puppet of the greenlanders, dancing to their tune. No, it was upon Theon’s shoulders to bring glory to the Ironborn, to make the greenlanders pay for the injustice they had done to his family.

 

“We will return,” he stated confidently, “and I will be king. We will gather the might of the Ironfleet under my banner and conquer all of Westeros.”

 

“And I’ll be a captain with my own ship. The greenlanders will learn to fear the Greyjoy name once again,” she said fiercely.

 

Theon didn’t argue with her. Girls didn’t captain their own ships, but Asha had the ferocity of two men and was the only one he could depend upon. That probably wouldn’t change when he was king.

 

It had been some grueling months since their escape from Harlaw. Shortly after the ill-fated Greyjoy Rebellion had begun, their mother had insisted on travelling to Harlaw from Pyke with both him and Asha. Then, one night, Theon had been woken up, quickly dressed and then put on the _Seastar_ with his sister. His mother had hugged him and kissed his brow. Her eyes had been sad, broken, but she had not cried. No, his mother was strong. And then they were sailing away. He remembered thinking that it was not a true ship, this _Seastar_ , for it was not a longship like the Ironborn usually used. For weeks, they had avoided the usual routes, not giving any indication that they were Ironborn and pretending to be a trade ship during times when meeting others was inevitable. They had made it to the safety of the Narrow Sea eventually. Had his uncle not had the foresight or cunning he had...Theon didn’t want to think about it.

 

This was now their home, where they were educated and prepared for the eventual reclaiming of the Iron Islands.

 

There was no other path.

 

Theon would learn, would fight and prepare and would return to Westeros as Balon Greyjoy’s heir, the Ironborn’s king.


	3. Chapter 3

#  Domeric I 

The halls of the Dreadfort were silent but for his footsteps. As a boy of one-and-ten years Domeric felt already like a man grown. His four years as Lady Dustin’s page had taught him much and, he felt, he had done good service. There had never been a complaint as to his behavior. Quiet but diligent, he had done all the work set out before him. He was well-educated, with a passion for history, and an accomplished player of the harp. None were his equal in the saddle. So why had his father ordered him back to the Dreadfort? Domeric had expected to spend some more years as Lady Dustin’s page. Had he done something wrong? Try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything.

 

All the way home he had wondered, his fears growing like shadows during the day.

 

Domeric entered his father’s solar after knocking, standing silently in front of the massive birch table. His father was as pale as the table he sat at, skin shiny in the candlelight and eyes watchful. In his youth, Domeric had thought that his father was an immortal ghost, talking rarely but always there to lead. A child’s fantasy, no doubt, but even now, years later, some of that impression remained. The silence between them grew, but Domeric was fine with that. Silence was something he had grown up with. It was said that the people on Lord Bolton’s lands were quiet ones and that was true enough. His return home had been a muted affair, though the feast was no less opulent than those he had known in Barrowtown, if in other ways. Barrowtown was certainly livelier than the Dreadfort. It had taken him time to adjust and he had sometimes wondered if his mother had ever adjusted. None in the North were like Bolton folk and the people in the Rills were certainly passionate, especially when it came to horses. Domeric had inherited his mother’s passion for them and had been gifted a fine white steed during his time in Barrowtown. His mother had smiled when he had come home riding it. Domeric didn’t know when he had last seen his mother smile. It almost seemed to him like she had bled out all of her emotions using some kind of leeches Domeric could not see.

 

“Sit down.” The command was spoken in a soft voice but Domeric complied immediately. His father never spoke rashly nor did he raise his voice. Nevertheless, everyone always did as ordered.

 

The silence continued for a while. Domeric said nothing.

 

“Lady Dustin wrote that you have done well.” His father nodded once.

 

“Then may I ask why you brought me home, Father? I was under the impression that I would spend some more years in Barrowtown.”

 

His father nodded once more, then paused and eyed him for a moment.

 

“You are now old enough to be treated like a man, so I will tell you. The situation has changed radically in the last few years, since Eddard Stark ascended to his brother’s position and became Warden of the North. The relationship with the South has deteriorated, especially after the Greyjoy Rebellion. Initially, I had wanted you to squire in the Vale. There are enough houses we have good relationships with that would feel honored by that.”

 

A knight! Domeric almost smiled. He had always wanted to become a knight. To ride in tourneys - only he, his horse and his skill with a lance...to be called “Ser” and be respected not as Heir of House Bolton but for his prowess...There were so many fantastic tales of gallant knights in the history books, so many songs written about them...But wait...hadn’t his father said “initially”?

 

“Initially?” he asked, stifling his excitement. “Has something changed?”

 

“An...opportunity appeared.” His father lifted a letter from his desk. It had a seal on it: a black stag on blue. Domeric knew immediately what that meant, his heart almost in his throat. Meanwhile, his father continued speaking, perhaps not knowing of his excitement or, more likely, ignoring it. “Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone will make you his squire. I have already agreed. You will leave tomorrow for Dragonstone.”

 

To be a squire for the brother of the King! What opportunity! But...something didn’t feel right here. Domeric furrowed his brow.

 

“Father...didn’t you say that the North’s relationship with the South has deteriorated? So why am I squiring for the King’s brother?”

 

“It is true,” his father nodded, seeming to be satisfied that Domeric had asked, “that House Stark is not in the King’s good graces right now. That may change in the future - or not. But that is not your concern. Your squiring will be a boon for House Bolton, strengthening the relationship between us and the South. Remember, Domeric: you represent our House. It will be upon you to make sure that Stannis Baratheon sees House Bolton in the best light possible - as friends to the South and one of the most powerful Houses in the North. Do you understand?”

 

And Domeric did understand. He had always been called smart for his age - more intelligent than many, really - and he had read enough history to look beyond the obvious meaning of his father’s words. House Bolton had remained loyal to the Starks for many centuries - but that had not always been so. Though nowadays the relationship was not as hostile as it had once been, House Stark and House Bolton remained rivals. If the star of House Stark waned, then it was an opportunity for House Bolton to rise. His father was a cunning and intelligent man, and Domeric admired him for it. Admired him and sometimes even feared him a little. Naturally, there was no danger to him - he was his father’s heir, after all - but that did not mean that he was entirely comfortable with this. Nevertheless, it was his duty to both his father and his House, so he nodded.

 

“I understand.”

 

_________________________________________________

 

The next day Domeric left the Dreadfort quite early. Though it was already light, he could not see the sun as the morning fog obscured everything. It was a stark white and gave his home with its massive towers, high walls and sharp edges an even more gloomy feeling. By experience alone, Domeric was quite certain that the fog would dissipate by midday. His father and mother were there to give their goodbyes. She kissed him above his brow, a whisper escaping her lips to have a safe journey, and his father laid a hand on his shoulder, covered in the new spotted pink cloak he had gifted Domeric last evening, squeezed briefly and then nodded.

 

“Do our House proud,” his father said.

 

“I will.”

 

With that, Domeric and his escort rode through the gates. Domeric didn’t expect any troubles on their way to Tears Falls, the newest city in his father’s lands. It was at the mouth of the Weeping Water, called Tears Falls for the waterfalls not far from the city. Years ago, it had only been a small village, but with the new Northern prosperity it had grown as precious metals and gems were transported from his father’s new mines in the southern Lonely Hills to Tears Falls. Many merchants from Essos came there and even a few from the rest of Westeros, though those mainly sailed to White Harbor. Perhaps, in time, Tears Falls would be just as big and prosperous as the city of House Manderly. It was certainly a shorter journey for Domeric than having to travel south to White Harbor. He would take a ship at Tears Falls and sail all the way down to Dragonstone.

 

It would be the last time he saw the North for several years, Domeric thought and decided to enjoy the familiar sights as much as he could for now. The road along the Weeping Water was in good condition, kept so by the patrols of Bluecloaks he and his escort encountered periodically. The Bluecloaks...since they had appeared, they had garnered immense respect from Northmen and visitors alike. They were the new Northern knights. When he returned from Dragonstone would his father be agreeable to the idea of Domeric serving some years with them? He wasn’t certain. The Bluecloaks were under command of Benjen Stark, though his father had the power to influence or veto the appointment of the captains leading the Bluecloaks in his lands. It would certainly bring some prestige to both his person and his House. But that was a thought for much later.

 

From time to time they encountered a merchant or other travelers on the road but not many. Not a lot of people made their way to the Dreadfort, its reputation acting as an invisible barrier to people. It was understandable, of course, but it also saddened Domeric.

 

Small ships and boats navigated the Weeping Water, carrying valuable cargo ranging from timber to the metals and gems from the mines.

 

It was a serene journey. No bandits bothered them, not risking the wrath of the Bluecloaks, and the people in the dozen or so villages bowed low when they recognized him. He and his escort rested in a small village at midday, getting good service. Belly filled with fine wine - not watered down - and a spicy stew, they rode on. The fog was gone by now and the sun was shining brightly. The Sheepshead Hills flattened out into a plain with farms, fields and stretches of forest.

 

They arrived at Tears Falls in the early afternoon. The gleaming copper roofs that were by now a common sight in the North made it easy to see the city from a far distance away. They passed the waterfalls on their left. Laughing and giggling children played in the pond the waterfalls made while their mothers washed clothing and linens. The creek from the pond, called Laughing Creek, flowed towards the city and through it before joining the Weeping Water before it flowed into the Shivering Sea. Huge walls of dark stone, the same one the Dreadfort had been built with, protected Tears Falls from any danger. They rode through the gates, the guards bowing them in, and towards the sizable harbor. 

 

Much had been done since Domeric had been here last many years ago. Tears Falls had been much smaller then and not so well-defended. The houses now looked sturdier, the streets were cleaner and the citizens wore clothing of better quality than he had seen in the villages they had passed on their way here. Prosperity had arrived, mostly in the form of foreigners. Domeric had long since gotten used to these strange men in colorful clothing and with darker skin. There had been enough of them in Barrowtown and the South Crossing for him to not find the sight surprising. The only place that seemed to remain as it had been was a small island in the middle of the city, surrounded by the water of the Laughing Creek as it branched and later rejoined into one stream. Small bridges connected the island with each part of Tears Falls, though Domeric knew that the main traffic of the city used the bigger bridges south and north from the island. The reason was clear enough: a cluster of weirwoods grew on the small island - a haven of the Gods in the heart of the city. Did Dragonstone have a heart tree? Domeric didn’t know and somehow the notion that one wasn’t there disturbed him. He was not that devout but the Boltons had always been followers of the Old Gods as were the majority of their people. There was no sept in Tears Falls. He should probably pray, he decided. There was time enough for that.

 

An hour later he was looking at how Tears Falls became smaller and smaller as the ship sailed away. He had prayed, said his goodbyes and now he was opening a new chapter of Domeric Bolton’s history. He would be Stannis Baratheon’s squire, for good or ill.


	4. Chapter 4

#  Jon Arryn 

 

Screams echoed through the otherwise silent halls of the Red Keep as servants scurried to and fro, their eyes downcast. Jon shivered but nevertheless forced his feet to move forward. The whole atmosphere reminded him of a tomb or, perhaps, a battlefield, and not of the joyous occasion it should be. A new royal child would be born this day and, if the maester’s opinion could be trusted, it would be a boy. Robert’s line would finally be secure and Jon would be able to breathe easier once more.

 

As he neared the Queen’s chambers, he slowed down before finally stopping. He called a maid, bid her to return with the maester so that he could speak with him and leaned against the wall, deliberately making his body relax and his face show nothing but authority and security in his own power. 

 

Whenever Jon had the misfortune to venture to the Queen’s chambers, which, thank the Seven, was a rare occurrence, he always felt as if he was braving enemy territory. No matter what he did or told himself, the feeling didn’t leave him. And it probably never would, he thought drily as he watched several of the Queen’s attendants, both men and women, pass by. None of them looked all that similar to each other, but Jon’s eyes were sharp and discerning enough to see the little things that stood out. Some were blatantly dressed in red robes, though others showed only a token sign of their allegiance. Many had the coloring and features of Essosi, but alarmingly enough there were more and more Westerosi faces among them. It wasn’t noticeable when one wasn’t in the Red Keep, but there were rumors going around the city of the rise of a new religion - that of the Red God. This wasn’t enough to make the Faith concerned, not yet at least, but Jon didn’t doubt that there would be problems in the future.

 

Jon was keeping an eye on it - as much an eye or eyes as he could - but even he knew to thread softly. The Lady Melisandre always left him with a feeling of danger whenever he met her and there was no doubt that she had great influence over the Queen and Prince Joffrey. Jon remembered the last time he had tried to tell this to Robert, but the man did not seem to have even the slightest interest in his heir. More and more it felt as if the situation was growing out of his control. He had managed to stabilize the relationship between the North and the rest of Westeros, but even that remained as cold as the North’s winters. How had it come to that? Jon didn’t know and couldn’t guess. Once upon a time, Ned and Robert had been as close as brothers and now...

 

He almost sighed but then movement caught his attention. The door to the Queen’s chambers opened and Grand Maester Pycelle stepped out, passing Ser Eamon who was the Kingsguard on duty, and walked towards Jon. He looked tired, Jon thought. The long, snowy beard looked not as groomed as it usually did and his face was pale with fatigue.

 

Jon straightened slowly, his full attention now on the man. Pycelle was dangerous, had always been dangerous. Jon had always thought him too close to the Lannisters. Nonetheless, he was equally sure that the Queen was in good hands. A faint scent of smoke and fire drifted from Pycelle’s clothes to him and Jon made sure not to grimace. No doubt Melisandre’s followers were burning something somewhere in their god’s honor - probably too close to the Queen. Jon doubted that smoke would help make the birth easier. Was Prince Joffrey with them? Jon hadn’t seen him today yet, so that was very likely. The urge to grimace strengthened as he thought about Prince Joffrey taking part in such rituals, but his face didn’t move, thankfully. Instead, Jon nodded politely to Pycelle.

 

“Grand Maester,” he said, “the King bid me ask about the Queen’s health and when we could expect the babe.”

 

Pycelle’s eyes twinkled.

 

“The King’s concern for his wife is well known,” he agreed though both of them knew that Jon was not here on the King’s orders nor was Robert in any way interested in Cersei Lannister’s well-being. Robert had just returned from another hunt that morning and was dismayed at having found out that the birth was not yet finished. Jon too found this curious - Prince Joffrey and Princess Myrcella had been easy births - and though a part of him secretly, in the darkest corners of his mind, hoped that the woman would just die in the birthing bed and rid him of the problems that came with her, a larger part sympathized with Cersei Lannister. He knew well enough the dangers of birth both mother and babe faced. “The Queen is as well as one can be in her condition,” Pycelle continued, “though the birth this time is more difficult than the previous ones. You can tell the King to rest easy. It seems that the Queen will birth the babe during the next hour or two.”

 

Jon thanked the maester and quickly left, breathing easier when he was away. What to do now? Perhaps it would be prudent to find Robert and try to get him to be close to the Queen’s chambers when the babe finally came. Jon had not been able to convince Robert to stay during the last two births, but perhaps this one could be different. It would be the honorable thing to do, though Jon sometimes wondered whether he was the only man of honor in this godsforsaken city. Decision made, he changed direction, slowly moving towards the royal apartments.

 

He heard the sounds even before he arrived. Ser Arys Oakheart’s youthful face was as still as stone, not betraying any of the thoughts that had to be running through the young man’s mind. This was probably not what the man had expected when he had been appointed as a Kingsguard just months ago. Jon both pitied him and was glad for his presence. After such great men like Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower had been killed during the Rebellion, the quality of the Kingsguard had declined rapidly. Many of the new appointments Jon didn’t agree with - even Jaime Lannister, for all that he’d done, was a better man - but Ser Arys Oakheart was worthy of the white cloak.

 

“I see His Grace is busy,” Jon drily stated, ignoring the moans, giggles and laughter from behind the closed doors. It figured that Robert had switched to his second favorite activity after hunting.

 

“Yes, my lord,” the knight agreed and Jon silently complimented him on his composure. “His Grace wishes not to be disturbed.”

 

Behind the door, the moans grew louder and more frequent. Was there...more than one? Jon blinked, his mind rapidly going through the images that inevitably appeared in his mind before being banished. An orgy. Of course. The urge to sigh and grimace appeared again. Jon suppressed it.

 

“I see,” he nodded instead. “Then please tell His Grace that his child will be born during the next two hours, if you get the opportunity.”

 

“I will, my lord.”

 

Jon thanked the knight and left. Once again, he wondered what to do now. He could return to wait outside the Queen’s chambers, but that no doubt would not improve his mood any. Waiting outside Robert’s chambers was out of the question too. Had Stannis been in King’s Landing, he would have gone to him. The man was a welcome ally and had grown to become a good friend over the years. Sometimes, Jon wondered what would have happened had it been Stannis and not Robert who had fostered with him. Stannis and Ned would have complimented each other both in temperament and mind. But that time had passed and it would not do to dwell on what-ifs. Stannis was not here and there was enough work on his desk to keep him busy for a lifetime.

 

Seeing that nobody was near, Jon finally let the sigh escape. He had been running the kingdom for years now and it was not getting any easier. A period of relaxation and peace was what he needed, but Jon feared that that was impossible. There was too much to do and not enough time or strength to do it. So back to work it was, though a walk wouldn’t be amiss.

 

Several minutes later, Jon stepped outside and took a deep breath. Above him, clouds were gathering ominously, hiding the sun that was trying almost futilely to break through them. There would be a storm soon. Perhaps it would cleanse this damned place somewhat, thought Jon grimly, even though he knew that that hope was just as futile as the sun’s fight against the storm. He walked on, not meeting many people on his way. The whole of the Red Keep had been like this since Cersei Lannister had been confined to the birthing bed. All were silent, watching, waiting - for what? Jon didn’t know, even when he was doing it himself.

 

He passed the White Sword Tower, then the Rookery before he finally entered the Godswood. Alder, elm and black cottonwood trees rustled in the growing wind, breaking the silence. Not a soul was here beside him, but that was not strange at all. Nobody ever visited the Godswood. Only the gardeners occasionally spent their time here to keep the paths from being overgrown. Otherwise, this place was left in peace, free to grow in whatever way it would. Thus it was wild here and it seemed not to fit at all in with the rest of King’s Landing. Mushrooms peeked out from the roots of great trees. Moss covered both stones and old barks, and in the tall grass in some of the few clearings of the Godswood hidden flowers showed themselves in deep, vibrant colors.

 

Jon breathed in once more. The air was tense, reminding him of the hours before a battle, and Jon knew that it would not be long now before the storm came and the rain fell. The dance of the leaves in the wind became more and more violent the further Jon walked, but he didn’t mind the wind blowing all around him. It felt...invigorating, like a fresh breath among poisonous fumes.

 

His mind felt clearer and his spirit calmer when he stepped out into the clearing that housed the heart tree. Many years ago, he had found Ned kneeling in front of it, silent and angry at Robert. It had been the beginning of this whole mess. Well, no, not the beginning, but it was still the time when the relationship between his foster sons had cracked.

 

Jon had always thought that Ned didn’t think of this place as a true godswood, for the heart tree was not a weirwood but a great oak. Its leaves were green instead of red, its bark dark and covered in smokeberry vines instead of the bone-white of a weirwood. The only red to be found was the dragon’s breath growing below the oak.

 

Maybe Jon had expected it, even when he stopped, surprised to see a small figure kneeling in front of the oak, fingers tracing the indistinct features of the face that had, once upon a time, been carved into it. A movement to his right made his eyes dart to the figure of a woman leaning against an elm far enough away to give little Lyan privacy but close enough to protect him if necessary. She was of the crannogmen, one of the few guards who had come with Lyan to King’s Landing. She didn’t move, just nodded to him in greeting.

 

Jon stepped closer to the boy. He reminded Jon so much of Ned. Though the latter had had no godswood to seek solace in during his fostering, he had often been outside, preferably in the gardens. Lyan had been quiet since arriving, almost never speaking, disappearing into the background whenever he could. His protectors were equally silent and unseen. Studious and silent. It was no wonder that Robert had taken to calling him “Little Ned”, brightening when Lyan was near and almost speaking to him as he had to Ned during their fostering, as if Lyan was Ned, even acting as a father should to his son. Sometimes, Jon worried how healthy that was, both for Lyan and for Robert, but he did not say a word against it.

 

“Lyan,” he said, then, when the boy didn’t stir, repeated, “Lyan.”

 

The boy flinched, then shook his head before looking at him, his hand that had caressed the oak now hanging at his side.

 

“Lord Jon,” the boy stood and bowed. His words were spoken softly, almost timidly. Not for the first time, Jon’s heart grew sorrowful at the sight. The poor boy had been homesick, it was quite clear, and he didn’t find any friends among the royal children. Jon smiled at him warmly.

 

“There is a storm coming, Lyan. You shouldn’t be out here for long.”

 

Lyan glanced quickly at the heart tree before biting his lip.

 

“You can come back here later,” Jon said gently, kneeling beside the boy, “but we don’t want you to grow sick, do we? Come, let us go to the Tower of the Hand. We will get you some hot milk with honey and berries and I will read to you the letter from my son Jasper that arrived this morning. He is excited to meet you and will arrive in a few weeks.”

 

Jon offered the boy his hand. Lyan glanced to the heart tree once more before taking it. Together, they walked out of the Godswood, Lyan’s protector shadowing them, and then spent the next few hours inside, close to the hearth, where Jon regaled the boy with stories of the Eyrie while eating sweet pastries, berries and drinking hot drinks. Outside, the rain fell and the wind blew.

 

Tommen Baratheon, second in line for the throne of Westeros, was born, blue-eyed, black-haired and screaming, during the fiercest storm that had swept over King’s Landing in many years.


	5. Chapter 5

#  Tyrion I 

The boy swung his practice sword fluidly, hit and then cheered when his opponent fell. It was a good hit and clear for all to see that the boy had talent, especially when one considered that the other boy was several years older and taller than he. A victory well-earned it was. And his teacher seemed to think so too, clasping his shoulder and giving words of praise. The boy laughed gaily, held out a hand to help his opponent rise before running off towards his clapping mother on the edge of the training yard.

 

“He’s good,” the voice beside him said and Tyrion nodded, lips almost but not quite turned up in a half-smile.

 

“Well, he’s not bad,” Tyrion admitted finally, not willing to say out loud what he thought. The boy was good, frighteningly good. In some ways - looks, martial talent - he reminded Tyrion of Jaime, in others, he was exactly like his father. Tyson Lannister. Watching him grin at his mother, talking a mile a minute and gesticulating wildly, Tyrion couldn’t grow angry even as he wanted to.

 

_This should have been him._

 

He should be the one being praised. It should be his mother down there, smiling at him. But Fate or the Gods or just cruel coincidence had cursed him with this malformed body, had taken his mother away from her family and left him behind. His intelligence should have compensated for that, but in this world of swords and knights being smart meant nothing if one did not have the looks or height to go with it.

 

Tyson Lannister. If the boy hadn’t been born, Tyrion might still have had the hope that he would inherit what was rightfully his: Casterly Rock. Now, though, it was clear that he was looking at the boy who would be his father’s heir. It was quite obvious that he was being groomed for it already. No, Tyrion wasn’t angry. What he was, though, was sad; sad for the lost opportunity, the lost dreams, the lost family.

 

“I’ve arranged it, my boy,” his Uncle Gerion said, face for once serious and not laughing. His eyes were kind - so kind that Tyrion turned his gaze away, watching as a new pair of boys with grand dreams of becoming knights one day began to spar. “Are you sure that this is what you want?”

 

“Why not?” Tyrion shrugged, forcing himself to stand tall, to smile and not give in to the pain. “It’s not like I have much left here. You will be gone soon enough.” On a wild chase to Valyria after Brightroar. It was a foolish endeavor, but who was he to deny his uncle that dream, that freedom? “And Father has made his position clear after I returned from fostering.”

 

“Ser Brynden did well by you.”

 

“You think so? Father didn’t.” Tyrion hadn’t tried to go against his father’s expectations, truly not, but somehow, in some manner, Ser Brynden’s influence had shown through. _Too much fish and not enough lion_ , he’d heard his father say. Even so, Tyrion didn’t regret his fostering.

 

“Yes. Yes, I do think so, Tyrion.” The words were heartfelt and Tyrion truly smiled when he felt his uncle’s hand ruffle his hair. Warm and supportive and there. Uncle Gerion had always been his favorite uncle. “You are a good man, nephew.”

 

They stood there in comfortable silence, letting the warmth of the sun and of their relationship hover around them.

 

“What will you do?”

 

“I don’t know, but Jaime has finally given me some nieces to spoil, so I will do that.” And from there, he would see. The world was now wide open, rich with possibilities, with freedom. Tyrion suddenly remembered his talk with Jon Snow so many years ago and found that his words from the past sounded true now too. There was no hope of him ever gaining Casterly Rock, but that also meant that there were no expectations he had to fulfill. He had failed his father by no choice of his own - or mayhaps his father had failed him? It didn’t matter anymore. There was nothing he had to fear from what was behind him, only from what lay ahead; and even then the future seemed ripe with opportunity and not failure. He had gained some friends, had some support in both Jaime and Ser Brynden. He would be alright.

 

“Then you should go pack and say your goodbyes. The ship will leave in a matter of hours.”

 

Tyrion’s last hours in Casterly Rock went by quickly. He had already packed before, sure that his uncle would make the arrangements and sure that he would go through with this. Not that he had all that many things in Casterly Rock. The Vale had been his home for many years, after all, and he had left some of the things he had accumulated with Ser Brynden. He would always have a home there, the knight had said and Tyrion had been grateful for that in the face of his father’s summons.

 

There were not many people to say goodbye to besides. Tyson and his mother had always been polite to him - probably influenced by her being a Royce - but they’d never been close or comfortable in his presence. Aunt Genna though had hugged him, given him advice and some additional funds before wishing him luck. 

 

“Write to me,” she’d said, smiling. It was an order she expected him to follow and which he would gladly do.

 

Letters for Jaime and presents for his girls were packed away and soon enough he was standing on the deck of the ship, aptly named _The Golden Horizon_ , and smiling at his uncle.

 

“Try not to die, Uncle Gerion,” he said, shaking the man’s hand before pulling him into a manly hug.

 

His uncle’s wild grin answered him.

 

“Defying death is half the fun, my boy!” He laughed then ruffled his hair a last time. “May the Gods favor you, Tyrion. I know that you will do great things in the years to come and have some good tales to tell your old uncle when he returns from his adventures.”

 

And though Tyrion didn’t believe in the Gods one bit, he nodded and said, “And may the Gods keep you, Uncle.”

 

Laughing, Uncle Gerion left the ship as the sailors began to hurry from one end of _The Golden Horizon_ to the other, preparing to depart. Soon enough the ship began to softly sway as they left the harbor of Lannisport. As they sailed farther and farther out onto the sea, Tyrion could see his home...no, his rightful inheritance in all its magnificence. The Ironborn had done a number on the city, but it still stood tall and proud like an old lion, bathed in the golden rays of the sun. Casterly Rock towered over it all, unmovable and strong, a testament of House Lannister’s greatness. It was not his. It would never be, had never been his. With a soft sigh and a pang in his heart, he turned away. Perhaps he could make some friends among the crew. It would take time to sail all the way up north to Deepwood Harbor and it would be lonely without some company.

 

His future was now, there for the taking if he only would. The Gods would never favor him - they never had before - but that wasn’t necessary. Tyrion was now a man grown, seven-and-ten, and what he lacked in height or looks he had in intelligence. He would do great things, all on his own.


	6. Chapter 6

#  Benjen I 

 

“So what will he do when he gets here?” Benjen asked his companion as they rode on towards Deepwood Harbor. The day was sunny and warm with nary a cloud in the sky. It had been some time since he had been able to just sit back and talk to his friend now that his duties so consumed him. The Wildlings were growing ever bolder in the northern parts of the North. It would get worse before it would get better, Benjen was sure and felt tired even thinking about it.

 

Jaime shrugged.

 

“Who knows? My little brother was always ambitious and clever. He has a good head on his shoulders and will find his way.”

 

That was certainly true, Benjen thought. He could remember seeing the Lannister dwarf for the first time. His figure had been stunted and strange, but his eyes and wit had been sharp. Yes, such a one could find his happiness here in the North - if he managed to find the strength to not give up and overcome the stones thrown in his way in the beginning. But with an advocate like Jaime beside him, Tyrion Lannister should have no problems.

 

Benjen didn’t know what to think of it. Two Lannisters in the North. It said nothing good about Tywin Lannister that his sons were running away from him. It promised nothing good for Lyan. His chest clenched at the thought and he had to take several deep breaths to banish the oncoming panic. Over the months that Lyan had been gone, Benjen’s mind had showed him many a catastrophic scenario - one worse than the other - and only the regular reports from Lyan’s guards and the spies Oberyn had in King’s Landing prevented him from taking his Bluecloaks and marching on the capital. They would follow him, he knew, and that revelation both elated him and worried him in equal measure. It didn’t help that Obara would be beside him, edging him on.

 

From all accounts, Lyan was if not happy then content. Jon Arryn was true to his word, guiding him and providing for him. Since Arryn’s son, Jasper, had arrived, Lyan had even gained a friend. Still, with people like Robert Baratheon, who had apparently taken an interest in Lyan, and Tywin Lannister, who was always either in Casterly Rock or King’s Landing, there, it took all of Benjen’s strength to let this mad situation continue. Starks had never done well in the South. Most had died gruesome and painful deaths.

 

He felt a hand grasp his shoulder and startled. Jaime was smiling at him, eyes gleaming with understanding, and he realized that he had been silent for too long. Benjen nodded once in thanks.

 

“I am sure he will find his place, my friend.”

 

“I hope so, too.” Jaime paused, raising his head and staring into the distance. “Mayhaps...mayhaps he will find his happiness here. His time in the Vale certainly did him some good.” Then Jaime shook his head and grinned. “But let us talk of something else! Tell me, how fares your beautiful good-sister? I heard the little babe will be here soon.”

 

The mood immediately lightened and even Benjen began to smile.

 

“Aye,” he said warmly, “it will. Old Nan is telling everybody that it will be a boy this time. Ned is beside himself. He missed Arya’s birth because of the Greyjoy Rebellion and hopes not to miss this one. I’m just glad that Elias will then have a cousin his age to play with - and your little girls are just a bit older than the youngest Stark will be...”

 

Jaime shot him a glare that spoke quite clearly of how his friend had turned into an over-protective, besotted father and Benjen grinned. Still, it wasn’t a bad idea. A marriage between one of his daughters and one of the Starks would only strengthen both Jaime’s position in the North and the Starks’ hold on a loyal and profitable bannerman. With Maege Mormont as a mother, there was no doubt in his mind that the girls would be brought up right. Finding good marriage matches was no easy business, especially if your name was Stark. Ned, too, would soon have to turn his mind towards whom Robb would marry or Sansa. With their current relationship with the South, it was doubtful that any marriages outside the North would be made any time soon.

 

They rode on.

 

Eventually, the trees became fewer in numbers and, after a bend in the road, they saw Deepwood Motte again. The last time they had been here was to banish the Ironborn from their lands. This time, the occasion was much more joyous. Nevertheless, the Ironborn attack had left scars in House Glover’s lands that had not yet been healed. Parts of Deepwood Motte had been burned to the ground and even now its people were slowly but surely rebuilding - this time doing so with stones instead of wood. Jaime, Benjen knew, had gotten quite some profit from his newly opened quarry, though he had sold the stone to House Glover for a very fair price.

 

“Tyrion arrives in the next few days, doesn’t he?”

 

“If what Uncle Gerion wrote is true and if the winds allow for it, perhaps as early as tomorrow.”

 

“I couldn’t convince you to come along for the ceremony then?” Benjen asked and had to smother his irritation when his friend laughed.

 

“Benjen, dear friend, you are now a knight yourself and can knight any man you wish.”

 

Benjen shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. This whole knight business wasn’t to his taste. He was Benjen Stark, Commander of the Dawnguard. He was no Southron knight. And he was no Jaime Lannister, who had distinguished himself by doing valorous deeds.

 

“It is your fault that I am. People are now calling me Ser Benjen instead of Commander.”

 

Jaime gave him a considering look and he glanced away, eyes on Deepwood Motte again. So many of his men had been lost here and he was hailed as a hero. It wasn’t fair, but, then again, not many things were in life.

 

“You should not sell yourself short, Ben,” his friend stated quietly, sincerely, and Benjen turned his gaze to him once more. “You are far more deserving of knighthood than many men I have known, as are your men. Besides, the chance at knighthood is a good motivation for many.”

 

“This isn’t the South, Jaime.”

 

“No,” Jaime admitted, “it isn’t. But a Northern knighthood does not have to mean the same. What are the small folk calling your knights now? Wintersworn? Winter’s Wolves? Ice Swords? Icecloaks?”

 

Benjen snorted.

 

“All of the above. At least it isn’t something silly. Perhaps one name will even stick - who knows? So, regardless, will you accompany me? Even if I knight them, the presence of the Lion of the North will undoubtedly be an honor.”

 

“If Tyrion doesn’t arrive tomorrow, why not? Far it be from me to deprive them of my glory.” He cocked his head to the side, suddenly looking as regal as any prince.

 

Benjen laughed and Jaime joined him a second later. Together, they rode into Deepwood Motte to receive a hero’s welcome.


	7. Chapter 7

#  Jon II 

Jon frowned deeply as he stared at the cyvasse board, trying desperately to find a way to win. Across from him, Robb was smirking. His brother had gotten awfully good at this game, Jon admitted in the privacy of his own mind.

 

“Just give up already,” the Stark heir said, but Jon’s frown instead grew. What to do...what to do...

 

His red jasper dragon almost mockingly glinted in the sunlight. A flash of a dream made Jon shudder imperceptibly, but then it was gone again. No, the dragon was too far away to be of use and though it could usually move across the whole board freely, not daunted by mountains or deserts, Robb had arranged his side cunningly, putting several desert tiles together so that there was no place for his dragon to resupply without braving some of the very well-defended oases that joined the two sides of the board. Trebuchets and catapults could bring down even a dragon, especially when they had the advantage in numbers. Then perhaps one of his dire wolves? They were fast enough, certainly...his gaze shifted towards the mountain tiles next to the desert. Robb’s crossbowmen, hidden in the hills in the only pass that gave access to Robb’s lands, shone golden as the sunlight flowed through the amber they were made out of.

 

Jon almost sighed as he recognized that there was no escape. His army was decimated, having been divided and then killed quickly, his king would be caught and killed either by Robb’s golden dire wolves or the light horse. He couldn’t mount a counter attack before that happened and his dragon could only defend his king from one direction, not from two or three.

 

Robb had won. Again.

 

This had become a frequent occurrence since Aunt Obara had taken it upon herself to teach the two brothers cyvasse. It had been difficult, learning the different rules, but Jon had persevered and done so at the urging of both his father and Uncle Benjen. He still sometimes struggled, having trouble thinking ahead three, four moves, but he was getting better. Slowly. Maybe.

 

Robb, though, was a natural. His brother had grasped the rules quickly and had taken to making more and more complex strategies the longer he played. Even when he arranged the board in such a way that it didn’t turn his side into an impenetrable fortress, he won more times than not against Jon. It didn’t help matters when on Robb’s birthday Aunt Obara had gifted him the beautifully crafted cyvasse set they were now playing on, as she modified the game to include giants and dire wolves, making it more Northern, but also setting up new rules. The pieces were made of brecciated red jasper and amber the color of rich honey respectively. Red-brown pine wood had been used for the board itself, while the different tiles ranged from almost transparent rock crystal mountains to finely carved jade forests and citrine deserts. It was a gift fit for a lord, even a king.

 

A momentary spike of jealousy shot through Jon before he banished it swiftly. He loved his brother. Robb was the heir to Winterfell and would one day rule all their father’s lands. He, Jon, was just a bastard. Once upon a time, Jon had been bitter because of that, but he remembered his talk with Ser Jaime’s brother Tyrion well. Freedom. Robb would never have the freedom that Jon did. Perhaps it was bad of him, to rejoice in Robb’s lack of freedom when Robb had never done wrong by him, but Jon couldn’t help it. He was the bastard, Robb was the heir, and that was that. Or it should have been. Lately, things had started to become strange.

 

“There you are, boys,” the familiar voice said warmly and both of them looked up to see Lady Stark smiling down at them. “Robb, you promised to help Maester Luwin in the library, remember?”

 

Robb pouted.

 

“But...Mother...I was just about to win!”

 

“...were not,” Jon murmured defiantly, not daring to speak louder but not wanting to concede defeat either.

 

“Regardless,” Lady Stark continued somewhat sternly, “you gave your word, Robb.”

 

Robb deflated at that, face growing solemn. _Sometimes_ , Jon thought, _Robb is just like Father._

 

“And a Stark always honors his word.” He nodded seriously, then turned to Jon. “I’ll see you later, Jon. Mother.”

 

And with that Robb walked away as quickly as he could without running. Jon forced himself to not run after him.

 

“Jon,” Lady Stark said his name in a kind voice and not for the first time he wondered whether the world had gone mad, “your father wishes to talk to you in his solar. He is waiting for you.” She half-turned, her imposing figure regal.

 

“I...yes, Lady Stark.” He almost stuttered. There was so much that was wrong with her statement. No doubt his father was truly waiting for him - Lady Stark would never lie about something like that - but she’d called him Jon and acknowledged his status as Ned Stark’s son. This strange behavior of hers had been going on for a while now. At first, Jon had figured that this was some kind of trick to get him into trouble, but he’d waited and waited and Lady Stark had remained pleasant, even kind and nice, in their interactions. It was disconcerting to say the least. All his life the world had been clear: he was Ned Stark’s bastard, a blighted spot upon Lady Stark’s clean household, and she disliked, perhaps even hated him because of that. Now...now things were suddenly different and he couldn’t decide how to react.

 

Jon stood up, eager to get away, and Lady Stark nodded.

 

“Happy nameday, Jon.” She gave him an almost-smile and then left.

 

He remained standing there for several minutes, watching her even after she had turned a corner, then he shuddered and hurried towards his father’s solar. He knocked at the door, heard his father call him in and entered. The room was bright and welcoming due to the sunshine flooding in through the windows. One of them was open, letting a cool breeze into the room and making some of the Stark banners flutter softly. There was no fire in the fireplace, but that was unsurprising. Jon’s father preferred a slightly lower temperature than his wife or Winterfell’s many other inhabitants that weren’t Jon’s siblings. Jon had always suspected that it was the Stark blood in them.

 

“Jon.” His father stood up and smiled, striding over to him and lifting him up as if Jon didn’t weight anything. Like he was a little child. Well, he wasn’t! He was eight! That was a respectable age for a young man, surely. But...perhaps he was still allowed to get hugs and lifts from his father. Besides, it was his nameday. With that conclusion in mind, he only half-pouted in response.

 

“Father...”

 

His father laughed, the sound vibrating through Jon’s body warmly, set him down and ruffled his hair.

 

“Happy nameday, my boy,” his father said and guided him towards the windows. They sat down in the sunlight, a small table with a tray of food and drink on it. “Go on, Jon. There is still a while until the midday meal.”

 

Suddenly ravenous, Jon didn’t let his father tell him twice. Some of his most favorite dishes were there: pastries filled with a tasty mixture of fluffy cream, nuts and honey, cold meat from the deer the hunters had brought in yesterday, generously seasoned with spices, warm milk with honey and a bowl of berries. All of it tasted as good as it looked.

 

His father laughed.

 

“Slow down, son, or you might choke.”

 

Jon swallowed the piece of meat he had stuffed into his mouth and tried to eat at a reduced speed. His father began to ask him about his day and they chatted leisurely, Jon basking in the undivided attention. Though Robb was better at cyvasse, Jon could proudly say that he had learned his letters better, spending some of his time in Winterfell’s library reading about whatever he fancied, and in his latest spars with Robb, he had won more times than lost, even getting some praise from Ser Rodrik. Robb was strong, but Jon was more agile and that, more often than not, made the difference.

 

“Jon,” his father finally said and something in his voice told Jon that he would now hear the main reason for this private meal, “you are now eight and I know that you have thought about your future frequently in recent times.”

 

Jon’s heart sped up. Was his father throwing him out?! But, no...his father wouldn’t do that. And it was true, he had been contemplating where his future would lead him. Perhaps it was because of that talk with Tyrion so long ago; perhaps it was because he was almost a man grown now. Many of the books he read told of great adventures in far-away lands, of heroes, knights and kings seeking riches, happiness or some other lofty goal. As a bastard, he was not tied down to Winterfell. The world was wide open to him.

 

“Yes, Father, I have.”

 

“Then tell me your thoughts, son,” his father said seriously. It made Jon sit straighter, pride glowing warmly in his chest.

 

“Well, Father,” he began, paused slightly, then licked his dry lips and took a mouthful of honeyed milk, “I am not bound to Winterfell like Robb is, because I’m not your heir. There are so many paths open to me...”

 

“It is good that you recognize that those paths are there,” his father nodded encouragingly, “but have you thought of what you want?”

 

“I...”

 

What did he want? He loved Winterfell and he loved his siblings. Things had gotten even better after Lady Stark suddenly decided that she would treat him better. But did he want to remain here forever? It was safe and familiar, but no hero had ever accomplished anything by staying at home. Was that what he wanted? To accomplish something? He frowned, trying to search his heart for the answer. Perhaps...perhaps he did want that; to not be just Ned Stark’s bastard or Robb’s brother or just a shadow in the stark light that illuminated his siblings and left him in the darkness of anonymity.

 

“I want,” he swallowed nervously, hesitating to speak something so private even to his father, “I want to accomplish something that lets me stand on my own feet - as Jon.”

 

His father gave him a smile and he softly grinned back. Was that a good answer then? He didn’t know, but it felt like the truth.

 

“But...I don’t know how to do that,” he added after a moment.

 

“You are yet young, Jon, and you have time to decide how you want to do it. But that you already think of your future at such a young age tells much of your maturity. I am proud of you, son,” his father quietly praised. “Your answer also tells me that you are old enough to appreciate the responsibility that I have in mind for you.”

 

“Father...?”

 

“Both you and Robb will join me on my various travels through the North and learn what it means to be a lord in addition to your other lessons.”

 

Jon’s eyes grew wide.

 

“But...Father...I...I will inherit no lands. I will never be a lord of anything!”

 

His father’s warm hand landed on his shoulder, steadying him. Grey eyes twinkled, brow softened in a face that often looked too stern.

 

“You have told me that you want to stand on your own two feet and I do not want you to feel as if I am pressuring you onto a path, but I think it is a good time to make you aware that this path _is_ open to you. The North is changing, more people are moving here and prosperity is coming. We do not lack in land. If, when you are older, you want to become a lord, then there are several places a keep can be built. I have no doubt that you would be a good and just lord. You are my blood, Jon, and if that would make you happy, I would help you make it happen. That is one of the good things a family can do. We are a pack and we help each other.”

 

“I...Father...”

 

Tears began to gather in his eyes as he lunged forward, pressing his face into his father’s chest. The embrace was warm, safe and Jon thought that he hadn’t felt this happy ever.

 

“Father,” he managed to whisper between sobs, grinning even as tears slid down his face, “... _thank you.”_

 

His father’s hand patted his head gently, smiling at him. When the most important man in Jon’s life spoke again, it was done in a fierce, proud voice.

 

“Whatever you do with your future, Jon, know that I’m proud of you, my boy.”

 

It was the happiest nameday Jon had ever had.


	8. Chapter 8

# Eddard I

 

Ned smiled as he looked at the boy. Even at eight years Jon was already becoming an accomplished horse rider, sitting comfortably in the saddle and moving as one with the horse. 

 

_It must be his mother’s blood_ , thought Ned as an image of the past appeared in his mind: Lyanna, laughing freely, racing through the Wolfswood ahead of him. It had been a simpler time, a time of joy and childhood. Sometimes, he wondered if he was doing her son a disfavor, grooming him to be a lord, a king. It wasn’t that Jon was in any way not suited to kingship. He was, perhaps better than most kings Ned knew of. Already, the boy Ned loved as a son showed traits that would make him a great leader. He was patient, thoughtful and had, thank the Gods, none of the madness that was usually associated with Targaryen blood. Oh, Jon had a temper, no matter how hidden it was, but none of Lyanna’s rashness. Were those Rhaegar’s traits? Ned liked to think that Jon had gotten them from Ned himself instead.

 

„Is it far yet, Father?“ the boy asked, unsurprisingly. In the year since Jon and Robb had joined him on his various travels to his bannermen this was the farthest Jon had ever been. There had been some visits to Castle Cerwyn, certainly, or to one of the villages near Winterfell but no farther. Jon might have known in his mind that the world was a vast place and that the North was bigger than all the other kingdoms combined, but knowing and truly understanding were different things. 

 

They had crossed the tributary of the White Knife, commonly known as the Wolf Knife, during their second day of travel, having stopped at Castle Cerwyn on the day before. Along the Kingsroad they travelled south before veering west towards Torrhen’s Square. The frequent traffic that was nowadays found on the Kingsroad petered out until the barrows in the hilly plains were their most seen travel companions. Shadows of the past, ghosts of once great men they were, forgotten in the present but with their legacy still talked of in tales by the fires of the North. Nowhere else had Ned felt the history of his lands so acutely as amidst these ancient graves and he could see that it was the same for Jon. Still, an eight-years old, even one as solemn as Jon, sought excitement and adventure, and even ancient ghosts lost their mysteriousness after a while.

 

„We will soon be there, Jon,“ Ned answered him and his words were proven true not even twenty minutes later. The snow-capped hills and the winding road gave way to an overlook of Torrhen’s Square. The small keep looked as sturdy as House Tallhart was loyal to the North and the Starks: stone walls a thirty feet high, four square towers standing in vigilance at each corner. The small village surrounding the keep was bigger than Ned remembered, though it hadn’t swelled as much as some of the cities of the North had. 

 

There was a gasp from beside him and Ned looked to Jon, seeing the lad staring at the sight with wide eyes.

 

„What is it, son?“

 

„This,“ Jon whispered reverently, „must surely be the sea. It is so…vast, Father.“

 

Ned laughed.

 

„No, my boy, this is not the sea, but Torrhen’s Lake is still impressive, aye?“ Jon nodded. „It is one of the largest lakes in Westeros. I can understand why you would mistake it for the sea. I was similarly impressed when I first saw it as a boy.“

 

„I’ve just…never before seen so much water, Father,“ Jon said contritely, but Ned just laughed, leaned over and squeezed his shoulder in reassurance.

 

„You will see much more during the next few years, my son. The North is in your blood and these lands have greatness in their soil. From the Wall that keeps us safe from Wildlings to the great towers of Moat Cailin and the swamps of the Neck — all have their own beauty.“

 

They rode on silently, letting their surroundings wash over them. It was truly the perfect day for Jon to experience Torrhen’s Square. The sun was shining brightly and reflecting off the water, which itself was a vibrant blue, almost turquoise in color. There were lakes in the Lake Mountains west of here that actually were turquoise — something to show his boys if the opportunity presented itself later on, as such lakes he had only seen in the North and high in the mountains of the Vale. Small boats sailed on the lake and the Lake Mountains to the west rose majestically into the sky. They were not the highest in the North but impressive nonetheless.

 

Their arrival had apparently been noticed. From Torrhen’s Square Ned saw riders approaching, the banners of House Tallhart — three green sentinel trees on a brown field — fluttering in the wind. Ser Helman Tallhart himself — looking a bit older but still with a youthful charm and stout body — was in the welcoming party.

 

„My lord Stark,“ the man bowed to him, „let me welcome you to Torrhen’s Square.“

 

„I am honored to be here again, Ser Helman, though you have yet to tell me what this is about.“

 

„An opportunity, my lord,“ Ser Helman smiled. That was good news. Ned relaxed a bit. The letter that had arrived with the raven hadn’t sounded urgent but it had asked him to come as soon as he was able.

 

„I see. Ser Helman, let me introduce you to my son Jon.“

 

He felt Jon tense next to him and he briefly regretted that the boy suffered so under his mantle of bastard. It was necessary — of that there was no doubt — but to see Lyanna’s son brace himself against reactions to his supposed status and not being able to help…Jon was well-liked in Winterfell and by those who got to know him, but it seemed as if Cat’s actions before she knew the truth still affected him deeply, would perhaps affect him forever. Ned resisted the urge to sigh.

 

To Ser Helman’s honor the man only smiled and exchanged polite greetings with Jon.

 

„It is almost like looking into the past itself, my lord,“ commented Ser Helman on the ride back to Torrhen’s Square. „He looks just like you did then.“

 

„Aye, he is all wolf,“ _and not one drop of dragon, thank the Gods._  

 

Jon’s shoulders had straightened at the words and Ned was glad once more that it was just the two of them and some Stark guards. Robb had decided to remain behind as the Stark in Winterfell under the supervision of his mother and Maester Luwin. This would be good for Jon and Robb both.

 

Ser Helman’s hospitality in any case was as impeccable as it had always been. Jon was treated as an honored guest and Ned himself certainly got the respect he was due as Lord of Winterfell. Arriving, they were introduced to Ser Helman’s children, wife and a Lady Mya Sand. Her exotic features with skin darker than any Northman had and her black hair spilling in waves down her back spoke of Dornish heritage. Despite being a Sand, her manners were those of a highborn lady. With thoughtful eyes and a gentle voice, Mya Sand was everything Ned imagined Obara would be had she not a warrior’s spirit and heart.

 

„She is the reason you are here, my lord,“ confided Ser Helman when Ned asked him what she was doing in Torrhen’s Square. Most foreigners usually came to the new trade hubs that were developing and Torrhen’s Square, for all its beauty and good people, wasn’t that. But Ned contained his curiosity until after the meal, which was truly excellent.

 

A stew of fish, vegetables and a lot of mushrooms, seasoned with foreign spices that Ned recognized as Dornish, was followed by a hard, salty cheese that was so common in these parts of the North and smoked horse flesh. Together with fresh bread, butter and ale it was just what he and his men needed to refresh themselves from the long journey. During the meal they spoke of inconsequential things and when their thirst and hunger were sated they retired to Ser Helman’s solar, which was sunny and had a magnificent view of the lake. Ned instantly saw a detailed map of House Tallhart’s lands on the table. Wine and small pastries were brought in by servants and then it was time for business.

 

The four of them sat at the table, the map in the middle.

 

„Well, Ser Helman, please do tell me what issue brought me here. I admit I am very curious.“

 

Ser Helman coughed, then glanced over to Mya Sand.

 

„My lord, it is Lady Mya’s story to tell, as it is her proposal which brought you here, as I already said. But let me tell you my side of the story first and then let Lady Mya tell you hers. Lady Mya came to Torrhen’s Square several months ago from Moat Cailin. She had letters of recommendation with her from both Lord Oberyn Martell and your good-sister, the Lady Obara with all the right seals. At first I was skeptical but then Lady Mya convinced me that her idea would be profitable, both for the North and for myself. Tell me, my lord, did you like the mushrooms in the stew?“

 

„The mushrooms?“ What a strange question and completely unexpected. Still, Ser Helman was not a man to ask something like this with no goal in mind. „They tasted as mushrooms usually taste, I suppose: firm and with a rich flavor. Jon?“

 

„They were good.“ His boy nodded in agreement.

 

„Then it might surprise you, my lord, that these mushrooms were not gathered in the forests and hills of the North but that they were grown in a cave.“

 

„A cave?“ In his experience mushrooms couldn’t be simply grown. They were gathered, yes, and the Wolfswood was full of them when there were no snows and the weather warmer, but they were never grown. Certainly not in a cave.

 

„Indeed, and it was Lady Mya here who brought to me the method of doing so. But I shall let her tell the rest, if you please, my lady.“

 

Lady Mya smiled warmly and began her tale with the same gentle warmth that had enriched all of her words till now.

 

„Lord Stark, for you to understand what I want to propose for the North, you must first understand my history. I am the bastard daughter of Lord Harmen Uller and sister to Ellaria Sand. Ah, I see you recognize the name. Yes, my sister has indeed fallen in love with Lord Oberyn Martell and he with her, and they had a hand in my coming north. At least their help facilitated my travels here, though the wish to come was my own. You see, the son of my Uncle Ulwyk, Harmon Uller, studied for a time in the Citadel. He had wanted to become a maester, but then he recognized that this was not his calling. Still, he had learned much during his time there and was even good enough to forge his lead and silver links, amongst others. As a young girl and a natural born daughter of a great noble house of Dorne I had not many expectations heaped upon me — for marriage was unlikely — but enough opportunities to do as I wished. My father loves both Ellaria and me fiercely, and would see us happy. Ellaria found her happiness in Oberyn, but I had always wished for knowledge. My cousin Ser Harmon returned from the Citadel and saw that I was fascinated by what he had learned. I, myself, could not go study there as I was not a man, but I still wished to know, so my cousin began to teach me. I learned quickly and I learned well, read every book that fell into my hands and soon enough it was thus that my cousin had nothing more to teach me. It was then that I began to think of what I was to do with my knowledge. I loved learning but I wanted to do something with that knowledge too. But as a woman nobody would take me as a maester, and then I heard about the marriage between your brother and my niece Obara. Over the years I listened as tales of the changes in the North came to Dorne on trade ships and with Obara.“

 

Lady Mya took a sip of her wine and paused, giving Ned a moment to think. Jon was already hanging onto every word this woman was saying, no doubt identifying his plight as a bastard with hers. Their positions were similar enough, though Jon had more opportunities as a man than Lady Mya had. But that still didn’t answer why this woman was here.

 

„So you came to the North to become a maester?“ The North was different to the South, it was true, but maesters had always been men here too.

 

„No,“ she shook her head, „or not quite. Lord Stark, what I am asking you is to allow me to form an order, not unlike the Silent Sisters but with a different purpose. The Faith of the Seven has many orders but as far as I know the Old Gods and the North have none. The Silent Sisters welcome widowed women, for example, but what of the widows of the North? They cannot dedicate their lives to the Stranger if they do not keep the Seven.“

 

„And you want to take those widows in? For what purpose?“

 

„Not only widows, my lord, but anyone who shows talent or the will to learn what I teach and to help people with that knowledge. It would not matter to me whether they followed the Old Gods, the Seven or some other gods from beyond the sea. You have already established your Dawnguard, but not every woman or man is a warrior. Some have a scholar’s heart or a healer’s hands. What I propose is this: the order would need a home. There is a small keep not far from Torrhen’s Square, next to some barren mines that have been closed for years, but they are big enough and cool and damp enough for mushroom cultivation to be done.“ She pointed at a spot on the map. It was indeed not far, perhaps a few hours ride from here. „That keep would be the headquarters of the order, with the mushrooms bringing enough revenue to the order to not depend on charity to survive. In glasshouses we would grow medical herbs and plants for healing, perhaps even some exotic spices in time. The order would focus on the needs of the North, teaching its members, sending them out to the small folk and anyone else who asks for help to counsel and heal. Cultivating mushrooms in caves is a way to keep the North fed even during winter and other methods of similar use can surely be developed in time.“

 

The idea of such an order was certainly appealing and Lady Mya’s arguments were sound. But there would be problems with that too. When the Dawnguard had been founded there were many voices decrying him, saying that he was building a Northern army — which was true, to a point. Now this order…they would say that he was replacing the Maesters. In time, that might even become true. Though it is said that the maesters took no part in politics, reality was seldom as pretty as theory. The Citadel was in Oldtown, once seat of the Faith of the Seven, and far from the North. If war came to his lands, if he ever stood against the South, could he refuse an offer to establish something like the maesters in the North? They would be home-bred, loyal… Still…

 

„And if I do not give you the permission to found your order? Would you still keep your knowledge of this mushroom growing to yourself?“

 

„I would not go against you, my lord,“ she answered wryly, „but, no, I would not keep such important knowledge as this to myself. It could help people, after all.“

 

Lady Mya might not have realized it, but the answer she gave him strongly pushed Ned into the direction of allowing this endeavor. Or perhaps she did know. Regardless, Ned felt no hidden motives, no malice in her words or ideas.

 

„That is a credit to you, my lady.“

 

„And her method of mushroom growing seems to work, Lord Stark, as you yourself have tasted,“ Ser Helman assured him. The man seemed quite taken with the idea and the more Ned thought about it the more he liked it too. More food during winter was always good and mushrooms could be dried, salted or pickled. Gathering them in the woods took time and effort, and it depended just as much on luck and the right weather as on the skill of the gatherer. If they could truly be grown in one place not depending on the whim of the weather…

 

„Then, mayhaps Jon and I could look upon this new method of mushroom growing and at that keep that you want.“ Both host and lady agreed, though it was decided to do so tomorrow. The rest of the day was spent resting, him talking more with Ser Helman and Jon exploring Torrhen’s Square. That evening Ned spoke with the boy who was his son in every way that mattered and asked for his impressions and thoughts.

 

„I like it here,“ Jon told him, eyes shining. „It’s beautiful and I’ve made some friends, Father. They are learning how to be barrow knights!“

 

„And you like Lady Mya too, don’t you Jon?“

 

The poor boy blushed and looked away, but when he spoke his voice was quiet and not at all that of a boy occupied with his first infatuation.

 

„She’s…she’s like me, isn’t she? Lady Mya…she wants to stand on her own two feet and if that benefits the North as a whole, well, why shouldn’t you help her, Father?“

 

Yes, why shouldn’t he?

 

That question he asked himself all through the night and on the two-hours ride to the small keep that was, as so many others in the North, more ruin than dwelling. It would take time, gold and effort to return it to its former glory, but the keep wasn’t as bad as some others Ned had seen. Many of its buildings were still standing if in need of repairs and there was enough room for glasshouses too. The remains of a small village surrounded the keep, though for the first time in years there was activity there. Tents had been put up and people were moving around — not many, but enough for Ned to recognize that this wasn’t quite a recent development. He remarked about that.

 

„Yes, I wanted to see for myself if it is possible before calling upon you, Lord Stark. And the attempt was successful.“

 

„Then let us go and see this mushroom growing.“

 

They ascended the path to the old mine. The entrance was blocked by two huge wooden doors and a pair of men were sitting by a campfire, quietly talking. Recognizing their noble guests they jumped to their feet and bowed low.

 

„How’s it going, Brandon?“ Ser Helman asked the older of the two and Brandon grinned a toothless smile.

 

„Like magic it is, Ser Helman. ‘t is like magic, growing without any light at all those mushrooms are, aye. And I tasted them myself — normal like those ones I picked in the forest as a boy.“

 

„Then as you were, men.“

 

Ser Helman took two unlit torches, held them to the campfire and then offered one to Ned. Together, the group entered the darkness of the old mine. The air inside was cool and moist and seemed to remain so the further down they went. Soon enough, they stopped in a larger cave where once miners had toiled away, trying to get to the precious ore that this mine had held. Now there were trays full of some kind of earth stacked upon shelves on each side of the cave and all held what were unmistakably white mushrooms arrayed like a small army of bulbous helmets ready to be harvested. 

 

„Why are they white?“ he asked, still slightly disbelieving. There were mushrooms here, growing on _shelves_ of all things, underground.

 

„We believe that just like a man’s skin darkens if he spends too much time in the sun, mushrooms too darken when in the sun. In these caves, though, they never get any sun at all and thus remain pale and white,“ explained Lady Mya and Ned nodded. Yes, that made sense.

 

„So, tell me how you grow them then. Is that normal soil in the trays I see?“

 

Lady Mya shook her head.

 

„No, it is a mixture of specially prepared — called composted — horse manure and straw. We got some from here but most we had to ship in with the river runners from the Rills. Ser Helman believes that House Ryswell will be amenable to a long-term deal. We pack that mixture into the trays and then put what we call the seeds of the mushrooms in. They grow quite quickly and soon a layer of white grows throughout the soil. It looks like freshly fallen snow. At that time we bring the trays into this cave and put clay soil over the white. After a time, the mushrooms you see here grow in them.“

 

It sounded so simple and it would keep many people fed during winter.

 

„Why must you change the cave?“ Jon asked. A good question, thought Ned and turned to Lady Mya.

 

„If you go further down then the air will grow hotter. Ser Helman thinks that there must be a hot spring somewhere behind the stone and so it warms the caves that are in the depths of the mine. The little mushrooms, when they are still seeds and, before they grow into this mushroom snow, must like it warm, like a babe growing in his mother’s womb. But when they are out, they want it to be cooler and so we bring them up. The men stationed at the entrance sometimes open the doors to let fresh air in.“

 

Ser Helman and Lady Mya showed them around some more. The mushroom snow truly looked like snow and it was indeed warmer the further down they went. During the ride back to Torrhen’s Square Ned remained mostly silent, deep in thought as he was. This mushroom growing would need a lot of people: to prepare the soil, to move the trays around, open the doors and guard them, to harvest the mushrooms and after that make them last for the winter. If they grew as fast as both Ser Helman and Lady Mya told him — and he couldn’t see why they wouldn’t; wild mushrooms grew fast too; one week there was nothing, the next the mushroom was already grown — then this mushroom growing was better than any other source of food.

 

_Winter is coming._

 

These were his House’s words. What kind of Stark would he be if he did not grasp this opportunity for more men, women and children to survive the winter that would surely come? And if this source of food was too good to give up, then there was no way that his honor would allow him to not grant the one woman who had introduced this mushroom growing to the North what she wanted, especially if this order of hers came with promises of healers and future solutions to local problems. The South had never cared much about the North’s difficulties and unique challenges, but here was someone who did, who wanted to found an order of Northern maesters who cared and were loyal. It was too good to pass up and Ned knew there was no other choice he could make.

 

When they had returned to Ser Helman’s solar, he gave Lady Mya a nod and his permission.

 

„You have already brought the North a change for the better and I thank you for that. Let it not be said that the North doesn’t remember its friends or repays its debts. Establish your order and know that you have the support of House Stark. If you need something, come to me. I ask you to please keep me abreast of how this all develops and to inform other lords of this new way of mushroom growing if you can. A single mushroom mine will be but a drop during winter, but if every Northern lord can adopt this way of growing mushrooms, then the mushroom mines will be a boon when the cold wind blows and winter is upon us again.“

 

And then he would know if the risks and problems that came with this new order were worth what he was getting in return.


	9. Chapter 9

#  Lyan I 

Like a ghost he walked through the halls of the Red Keep silently, its passages and secrets well-known friends after living so long in this city. Keeping to shadows, shifting his feet just so — it was an art form, survival in the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, but he had become adept at it. He pulled a lever and a secret door opened, sliding into place with a groan.

 

Lyan stopped, listening. All was silent and with a sigh he stepped out, shoulders relaxing as he breathed in the cold night’s air. Unconsciously, his feet began to lead him on a familiar path towards the godswood. He knew not why he was out so early, hours before the sun would rise, but something had woken him, a shiver of dread he could not dispose of.

 

His steps quickened slightly.

 

Something was wrong. Something was definitely _wrong_. He was running now and then he tasted it. On the wind that carried the scent of the Blackwater was a hint of ash.

 

…No, no, no…it was burning!

 

Panting, he stumbled, fell, got back on his feet again and ran on, desperation urging him ever forward. There, in the distance, was a light, flickering.

 

He crashed into the clearing where the heart tree stood, scraping his knees on a fallen branch. But that small amount of pain was nothing compared to what he was seeing. A torch was lying carelessly beside the heart tree, its flames hungrily devouring the kindling someone had left there. Shadows danced across the surface of the great oak’s bark, the carved face appearing demonic in the illumination.

 

“No!” It was almost a howl that left his throat.

 

Lyan scrambled to his feet towards the flames, not shying away from the heat as he tried to stamp the fire out. It was hot, it was burning but his veins were as cold as ice.

 

There was no sound, no indication, but he still felt the presence behind him. An icy fury came over him as he whirled around, lightning fast but not fast enough. Sharp, biting pain speared his side. His knees buckled and he stumbled back through the flames, slamming into the heart tree, one hand on his side. Blurry from the pain, he glanced up and saw a figure standing in the shadows behind the flames. Hair of molten gold and vicious eyes.

 

His enemy’s laugh echoed through the clearing.

 

“Burn! Burn with your false gods, mutt!”

 

Had he been able to move or had a blade, he would have struck this fiend down. But he did not. His strength was leaving him, the shadows around him growing together with his despair.

 

Darkness took him into the cool embrace of unconsciousness.

 

When next he woke it was to screams.

 

“Lyan! Lyan!”

 

Blearily, he forced his eyes open. The heat was great and the fire all around him. On the other side, someone was hopping up and down, waving his arms frantically. Jasper. Lyan almost smiled at the sight. His friend had the uncanny ability to always find him, even when Lyan wanted to be left alone. Perhaps, for once, this would prove a boon.

 

“Jasper…” he croaked. It was barely more than a whisper but it seemed to be enough.

 

“Thank the Gods! You’re not dead!” A relieved, half-mad laugh escaped Jasper. “I couldn’t find you…I felt that something was wrong…I…no matter…I can’t get to you! Can you move? Do you see a way out?”

 

Lyan glanced from side to side. All around him was fire, lapping at whatever it could find.

 

“No.” There was no way out.

 

“Lyan…”

 

“Go!” he almost shouted, then clutched his side as it whined fiercely. Jasper hesitated, their eyes met and Lyan knew that both doubted that his friend could return with help quickly enough to make a difference. But then Jasper nodded once, turned and broke into a run so fast as if all the Others were hot on his heels.

 

Lyan’s head fell back against the bark, his strength sapped by the forceful command he had given. The leaves of the great oak above him danced and whirled in the wind, almost pretty in the light of the flames. At least he would die next to a heart tree. So far from the lands of his birth, separated from all he loved, it could almost be called appropriate. A Northern sacrifice to the Old Gods.

 

A strange peace filled him. He did not feel the flames for it felt like his blood had frozen, tiny splinters of ice moving through cold water. He was going to die. Had he not seen darkness long before he knew that he would come to King’s Landing? Had he not seen danger and gone anyway? If he’d resisted, Uncle Ned would have protected him from King Robert. He was sure of that.

 

The winds around him strengthened, the fires roared and as he prepared to close his eyes for the last time, he heard them — whispers. Soothing voices flashing in the corners of his eyes, Northern in cadence and familiar in kindness. A lullaby for the damned.

 

Had the Gods granted him relief? Was that why he was hearing his father? He had not forgotten that voice…It whispered of glory, of secrets and victory, of sacrifice and of growth…

 

_I will always be with you, Lyan. You are not alone._

 

…Of companionship.

 

The carved face above him almost seemed to be smiling in approval and Lyan twisted his lips upward too. His hand, sticky with his own blood, reached out and caressed his companion as he closed his eyes in a final, willing prayer.

 

Even as he dimly registered shouts in the distance, his mind was upon his gods and his prayers. The bark beneath his fingers was cold but pliable, like freshly fallen snow, and, though his eyes were closed, he saw as the leaves of the great oak caught fire, dripping red in the night.

 

And so he stayed. And so he prayed.

 

When the sun rose in a crimson dawn the fire was finally put out. None thought that the young Stark had survived the flames, but they found him unburned for the base of the heart tree was untouched by the destruction around it. What caught the attention of those gathered was that the heart tree, which had once been a great oak, was now changed. Its bark was now white and its leaves had seemed to absorb the fire for they had turned into the blood-red of the weirwood. Majestically towering over all the charred remains of the others, the weirwood heart tree stood unbowed and unburned alone.

 

For the first time in thousands of years the Old Gods had eyes this far south and all had witnessed their return.

 


	10. Chapter 10

#  Jon Arryn II 

The Dragon Gate loomed over the party of riders, the dragons encircling it almost seeming to come alive in the shadows as the midday sun shone through the gate itself. It was a bad omen, thought Jon, but then again nothing about this situation was good. Since getting the raven he had thought of nothing else, cursing himself for having been away and hurrying down the Kingsroad to hopefully arrive before everything deteriorated even further.

 

An assassination attempt on Lyan Stark. By the Gods, the only saving grace in this was that the boy still lived, though he had been gravely injured. If he had died…Jon remembered Ned’s letters, the veiled threats he had never assumed his former fosterling to be capable of, and knew that another Stark dead in the Red Keep would have forever broken the fragile peace he had somehow established.

 

But the peace still held — for now. As the Dragonpit hovered ominously to his right and the maze that was King’s Landing spread out before him, he could taste it in the air. This city, for centuries now home to intrigue and power plays, had always been a living thing, its moods dependent on those in power, mirroring and amplifying even the smallest of changes. Jon had over many years come to understand and listen to its heartbeat like a bard discerning the various notes that made up his music. What he heard now was not reassuring. A tension, the promise of violence, hung in the air. Patrols of Gold Cloaks were seen frequently on the streets, large congregations of small folk were broken up and conversations were muted.

 

At the gatehouse, he could see new heads mounted on the iron spikes. Their eyes were wide in horror, their fair hair caked in blood, skin sagging as decay slowly set in.

 

Nobody met him in the courtyard and, after giving orders to his retinue, he quickly sought out Robert. Rashness was part of his king’s character and it was the last thing the kingdom currently needed. Strangely enough, Robert was neither whoring nor getting drunk. Instead, Jon found him in the training yard, sparring with one of the Kingsguard — Ser Preston. When was the last time Robert had done this? Jon couldn’t remember. Sloth and gluttony had seeped into Robert’s soul since he had taken the throne, though the man had been getting slightly better with the birth of his second son.

 

“Jon!” the King bellowed when he caught sight of him, unceremoniously dumping the hammer upon a stumbling squire and striding over. A second Kingsguard — Ser Arys —detached from a wall and hovered several meters behind his king.

 

“My King,” Jon bowed and then hastily followed Robert as he strode away.

 

“I want those dragonspawn assassinated!” Robert growled, scowling, eyes simmering with the infamous Baratheon fury.

 

“Pardon me, my King?” It wasn’t the first time that this had come up, though the assassins sent had always been few and far between. With so many domestic problems the exile Targaryens were a secondary threat, if they were a threat at all. The last report Jon had of them was that the Beggar King Viserys Targaryen was wandering Essos with his sister.

 

“The assassination attempt on Little Ned! It was the work of those dragonspawn!” Robert’s hand clenched into a fist. “I will not have Ned’s nephew be killed in my keep!”

 

“You are sure of this?” That two dispossessed children on the run had the means to arrange an assassination on the other side of the sea was unlikely.

 

“Of course I am sure!” He glared at Jon. “There were letters and a Targaryen heirloom in their hideout. I dealt with them myself; they even confessed! You’ve seen their heads at the gate?”

 

“I did.” A Targaryen heirloom? There were still Targaryen loyalists in Westeros, especially in the Crownlands. It was certainly possible that they could have arranged for this, knowing that it would destabilize the realm, making it ripe for the picking.

 

Jon left the King to his own devices, making his way to the Tower of the Hand. Before he did anything else, he needed more information. Giving instructions to one of his servants to buy two bottles of Arbor Gold from a specific merchant, he knew that the seeds would only give results in the evening. Meanwhile, he visited Lyan.

 

The boy was well-guarded in his rooms, a wound in his side bandaged and treated by the maester. Even after having been attacked, Lyan had changed little while Jon had been away, remaining the calm and quiet child he had always been. He could not identify his attackers or he would not. Keeping him company was Jasper.

 

“How is Mother? Do I have a sibling?” Jasper’s excitement made Jon smile.

 

“Your mother is well,” he said, though his eyes narrowed as he remembered the difficult birth Lysa had gone through. There had been moments where her survival had not been assured. “And, yes, you do have a sibling — a brother. His name is Robert.” Sweet little Robert Arryn had been the reason for his absence.

 

“Congratulations, my lord!”

 

“I’m a big brother!” Jasper’s eyes grew wide with awe.

 

“That you are, my boy. That you are…”

 

He spent a few delightful hours with the boys before he left them to their game of cyvasse.

 

His afternoon was busy. Information slowly trickled in, some even more fantastical than the news before. When the secret passage in his solar opened, he was standing at the window, looking over the godswood. The new weirwood tree shone brightly in the evening light, a testament to everything that had happened.

 

“My lord,” his informant bowed low, the scent of the city hovering around him and reaching Jon’s nose, making him sniff.

 

“Hello, Aron.” He motioned to a seat, a goblet of wine already prepared, and joined the man. Aron Stone was perhaps his most trusted ears and eyes in King’s Landing, having achieved most of what he now was because of Jon’s help. Waiting until the man quenched his thirst, he finally asked, “Now, what has been going on?”

 

Aron half-grinned, half-grimaced.

 

“None of it’s good, my lord. Worse than when you left. Whispers on the street say that the Targs tried to assassinate the Stark boy…”

 

“And is that true?”

 

Aron shrugged.

 

“Heard it from multiple sources m’self, but, you know, that rumor…it’s pretty insistent, isn’t it? My guts tell me it ain’t so. I’ve been investigating a bit deeper and every clue I find’s been leading me to the red ones.”

 

Jon paled, the pieces suddenly rearranging themselves in his mind. It made a horrible kind of sense. The Queen had never liked Lyan Stark — Robert’s obsession with Lyanna Stark ran too deep for it to be otherwise — and Crown Prince Joffrey took more after his mother than his father. Servants loyal to Jon had reported unsettling tendencies they had observed in the boy…if this was a Lannister move…

 

“So R’hllor is spreading then?”

 

“Aye,” Aron nodded, eyes grim, “more and more of the common folk listen to that hogwash. It’s an open secret that their priests are holding ceremonies in the Dragonpit regularly and the location of their temple is known to everyone who cares to know. One of my men scouted the place. It’s guarded by the Red God’s followers openly and the Gold Cloaks turn a blind eye to all of it.”

 

“I see…”

 

“The appearance of that tree,” Aron nodded towards the weirwood, “hasn’t calmed things down. Normal folks have suddenly come to discover their First Men roots and started worshipping the trees. Madness! Then again, can’t argue that the appearance of that thing ain’t impressive. There’s been rumors of wealth and prosperity in that Northern wasteland for years, but only now do folks begin to believe in that. They figure that if the Old Gods are sending signs, then all the stories must be true. Some Night’s Watch recruiters have been here some time ago and a lot of people joined them to travel north in search of gold and fortune. With tensions rising in the capital, I can’t say I blame ‘em. There’s been fights between all those religious loonies. The Faith’s finally pulling its head out of its ass and worrying. People are demanding the return of the Faith Militant and saying that the Stark boy is some kind of demon — one thing the Faith and the Red God’s followers seem to agree on, strangely enough — and, generally, this city is going to shit even farther and faster than it’s gone before.”

 

What astute observation. Jon almost snorted.

 

“Very well. Keep an eye on the situation. If you hear anything — and I mean anything — about any further threats to Lyan Stark, I want to know immediately.”

 

With that new information, Jon set to work, trying to keep the situation stable. Letters were sent and received. Doran Martell — Jon was sure that Oberyn Martell would have sounded even more threatening — gave veiled warnings and Jon had to give renewed reassurances and promises to legitimize the newest bastards of Oberyn to keep Dorne happy. Ned Stark had never before sounded so icy and furious — so much so that it came across as the tone of an enemy and not a former fosterling. 

 

When the High Septon finally wanted a meeting, Jon knew what it was about and diplomatically told the man “no”. Unfortunately, he never thought of the possibility that the old man would simply go to the King. Days later, the Crown’s debt to the Faith and to several other lords and institutions was either completely waved or reduced and the Faith Militant was reinstated under the leadership and aegis of King Robert Baratheon, its troops gathering in front of the Great Sept of Baelor. When the new protection detail of Lyan Stark, consisting of both Dornishmen and Northmen, arrived with Olyvar Sand at its head — mouth twisted in a smirk and cunning in his eyes — Jon wondered if it wouldn’t have been better had he stayed back home in the Eyrie.

 

He was much too old for all of this.


	11. Chapter 11

#  Domeric II 

The scent of wild roses hung heavily in the air, their fragrance so sweet that it made his head spin. Plucking the strings of his harp, Domeric sighed in satisfaction as a melody as clear as spring water echoed through Aegon’s Garden. He seldom had the opportunity now to devote much time to his music, considering his duties to Lord Stannis, but when he did it was so much better.

 

There was a giggle beside him and some clapping. Domeric grinned.

 

“Have you eaten your fill of the cranberries, Little Cassie?”

 

The young girl giggled again, raised one tiny hand and offered him a small handful of red berries.

 

“Thank you,” he said, taking the offered berries and popping one into his mouth. Cassana beamed at him and he tried not to grimace as the sharp bitter and sour taste filled his mouth.  Normally, these things were used for juice and not eaten raw, though Little Cassie seemed to like them well enough like this. Cassana giggled again.

 

“You did that intentionally,” he guessed, mouth twitching while he mock-glared at her. She shook her head, her long black tresses whipping around her as her small body quivered with suppressed laughter.

 

“Too strong for you, Meric?”

 

“Aye, you are. How could I withstand the might of the Lady Cassana Baratheon?”

 

She nodded then, eyes proud and head held high. A little princess, sure of herself but already showing a kindness seldom seen in the highborn. Domeric felt a wave of affection for her sweep over him. He would do anything for it to remain so.

 

“I won. Now sing me a song, Meric! I command it!”

 

“Well, if my lady commands it, how can I say no? Hmm…what to choose…” He raised a hand to his chin, stroking it in contemplation.

 

“The Bear! Please, Meric!” It was always the same game between them. Cassie had one favorite song and wanted to hear it all the time, even when he offered to sing her another.

 

“Are you sure? I learned some nice Marcher ballads on my last journey with Ser Davos.”

 

“Please, Meric!” She was beginning to pout now. Domeric grinned.

 

“Oh, very well. The Bear and the Maiden Fair, it is.” Clearing his throat once in preparation, he took his harp and began: 

 

“ _A bear there was, a bear, a bear!_

_all black and brown, and covered with hair._

_The bear! The bear!_

 

_Oh come they said, oh come to the fair!_

_The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear!_

_All black and brown, and covered with hair…_ ”

 

As he sang, he watched with delight as Cassana danced, sometimes laughing, her skirt whirling around her waist as she twirled, hair shining in the sun. He plucked the last string and let the sound echo around them.

 

“Again, Meric! Again!” she pleaded, running up to him and he knew that he couldn’t say no. He never could say no to the girl who was as dear to him as a little sister. Not the Bear and the Maiden Fair, though, but perhaps another song he’d learned in Dorne last month. If it replaced her favorite song, he might not have to sing the same thing over and over again.

 

“Unfortunately, Domeric does not have the time,” another voice interrupted just as he was going to agree. He glanced behind him.

 

The red hair of Lady Gwynneth Baratheon burned in the sun as she smiled gently at him. He hastily stood up and bowed.

 

“My lady.”

 

“Your performance was as lovely as always, Domeric,” she said and he blushed, warmth spreading through his chest. Lady Gwynneth was always so kind and shining, not at all like his own mother. Compared to this, the Dreadfort and its inhabitants seemed like pale ghosts.

 

“I am honored that it pleased you, my lady.”

 

“Your music always does. But that is not why I am here. My lord husband wants to see you.” She turned to Cassana. “And you, young lady, are late for story time.”

 

“Yes, m’lady.”

 

“But Mother…I want Domeric to sing me another song!” Cassana turned pleading eyes upon her mother, who only raised an eyebrow. How she could resist those innocent eyes, Domeric didn’t know.

 

“I will sing you another song later, but I need to see your father first right now.” He took his knife, cut two wild roses from a nearby bush and handed one first to Lady Gwynneth and then offered one to Cassana. Lady Gwynneth smiled, thanking him, her nose disappearing in the pale pink petals as she inhaled the scent. “In the meantime, have this as a token of my devotion. If you’ll meet any dragons or other monsters during story time, just think of this and you’ll be safe.”

 

“You’re silly, Meric,” she giggled, “I’m a Baratheon stag! If I see monsters I’ll just spear them up on my antlers!”

 

“Does — those are female deer — don’t have antlers, my dear,” Lady Gwynneth smiled.

 

“Then I’ll be the first one with some!”

 

“I’m sure you’ll be. Have fun, Little Cassie.”

 

Domeric ruffled her hair, laughing as she yelped and then bid the two ladies of Dragonstone farewell, walking off to see the lord of the castle.

 

Away from the roses, Aegon’s Garden had a pleasant pine scent that reminded him very much of the North and his home. Two years it had been since he had been sent to squire for Lord Stannis. Two years full of new experiences and lessons. He had needed to get used to many things. Lord Stannis was a harsh taskmaster, extolling both duty and fairness, not suffering incompetence or injustice. It was both what he had expected and not.

 

In some things Dragonstone and the Dreadfort were terribly similar. Both weren’t what one could call cheery, but Dragonstone was also damp. It made it harder to breathe, especially during spars between the various squires.

 

And then there were the dragons, he thought as he walked through a gate, small dragons framing it and dragon claws holding the torches inside the corridors. Nobody could deny that Dragonstone was made by and for Targaryens. Sometimes, when the wind howled and the stormy waves crashed upon the stony shore, the ghosts of that exiled House seemed to haunt the lonely places of the castle and the island. Domeric couldn’t understand how Lord Stannis lived with the reminder, especially when his brother had had the royal Targaryen family butchered in the Red Keep. 

 

It must be his sense of duty, Domeric decided, ascending the stairs of the Stone Drum leading up to the Chamber of the Painted Table. Outside, the sun was still shining — unusual even in summer on Dragonstone — but he could already see small white clouds shaped like sheep dotting the blue sky. A storm was coming soon, perhaps as early as this afternoon. Domeric was becoming a good sailor and now knew such things. Any lesson that Lord Stannis or Lord Davos taught him, he soaked up. Duty, justice, strategy, sailing, anything really — it would hopefully make him just as good a lord as Lord Stannis someday.

 

He entered the Chamber of the Painted Table quietly and saw Lord Stannis at the small robust table to the side, working diligently. From experience he already knew that he would be acknowledged when Lord Stannis was done with whatever he was doing. Patience, too, was a lesson he was learning and though it was not easy, he was adept at it. His eyes, as so often when he was waiting, moved onto the detailed map that dominated the room. When he first had seen it, he had not believed that it was possible to carve and paint such a thing. Mountains, rivers, deserts and forests were all there. Those who had created this work of art must have seen Westeros from above, as could only be achieved from dragonback. Aegon the Conqueror had used it when he planned the invasion of Westeros. Domeric got lessons on strategy and tactics with its help.

 

His eyes drifted towards the Crownlands, passing Dragonstone and moving on to the Kingswood. Lord Stannis was the Master of Ships for his kingly brother, tasked with rebuilding the Royal Fleet for some years now. Trees were felled in the Kingswood and then transported by the Wendwater downstream where House Wendwater, sworn to Lord Stannis, built ships in the shipyards at Wendwater Port. Those ships, in turn, were then stationed at Wendwater Port, Driftmark and Dragonstone; an impregnable wall of ships that ensured the safety of King’s Landing. Once he returned to the Dreadfort, could he then too establish something of a Northern navy? Shipbuilding was not something Northmen were well-versed in. Apart from House Manderly none of the Houses on the east coast did much with ships. Tears Falls was a beginning for House Bolton but it was not enough. If a town could be build where the Last River flowed into the Shivering Sea, then perhaps trees cut further upstream could be transported to those future shipyards just like House Wendwater did now for Lord Stannis. Northern wood was just as good, if not better, than Southern wood. It would bring profit and prestige to House Bolton and it would increase his House’s power. The North was a place of new things right now, change welcome and not shunned. He would have to write to his father with the idea.

 

“Domeric,” he finally heard and looked up. Lord Stannis was beckoning him over.

 

“My lord,” he bowed.

 

“There will be a tourney at Highgarden celebrating Loras Tyrell’s tenth nameday. All Baratheons have been invited. My brother Renly will be participating and taking Loras Tyrell as a squire. It has been…suggested to me that I attend. You will be coming with me.”

 

“I would be honored, my lord.” A tourney! With knights and maidens and honor and glory! Not that he would be participating, no, but even attending and seeing the best fighters in all of Westeros measure their worth against each other was more than enough. He tried not to grin — Lord Stannis did not think much of tourneys, knights or the gods — but he knew that his own eyes were shining. Still, what did Lord Stannis mean when he said “suggested”? “My lord, it was…suggested to you?”

 

Lord Stannis paused, his eyes staring at Domeric, measuring him. He tried not to move.

 

“You have heard of what has happened in King’s Landing?”

 

Tall tales there were. Of a weirwood appearing in the Godswood of the Red Keep. Of Lyan Stark almost being assassinated. Of the Faith Militant being reinstated under King Robert’s command. Of the Red God’s followers spreading their faith throughout Westeros.

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“Religions are clawing for power; noble Houses are doing the same and tensions are high. All events such as this tourney gather important people in one place and incidents, no matter how small, can lead to serious consequences. Not all have learned Harrenhal’s lessons. With my brother reinstating the Faith Militant, it is possible that he will do something else that might harm him and the royal family. It is my duty to prevent that, if I can. Do you understand, Domeric?”

 

“I do, my lord.”

 

Lord Stannis always spoke frankly to him, explaining the reasons for his actions, treating him like an adult and trusting him with such information. Domeric was very thankful for that and honored. He would not disappoint.

 

“Remember that one’s duty to his lord and his rightful king supersedes everything else, including personal desire or misgivings. Without duty a man is left rudderless in the storm, fluttering in the wind like a loose sail. Duty gives certainty and certainty prevents mistakes. Adhere to this and you will always walk surely, Domeric. I will trust you to be my eyes and ears during the tourney. We must prevent trouble from happening.”

 

Domeric nodded, taking the wisdom in and internalizing it like everything else.

 

“Of course, my lord.”

 

“Good, now come. It is time for another lesson…”

 

But even as he concentrated on the map of Westeros, watching troops move during Robert’s Rebellion, his mind was already on the tourney. Such an exciting opportunity! And in some years, he would ride in such an event for glory and honor himself. He was sure of it.


	12. Chapter 12

#  Stannis I 

Highgarden rose opulently on a hill, towering over the Mander and the Roseroad like a giant. The sun was shining brightly, illuminating the white walls and the banners of various noble Houses fluttering merrily in the wind.

 

Stannis frowned, wishing fervently to be anywhere else. House Tyrell’s in-your-face wealth and power was as ostentatious as it had always been. It reminded him of Storm’s End’s siege, of Mace Tyrell’s forces gorging themselves on food while his people hungered behind the walls of his ancestral fortress. And now his little brother Renly would take Loras Tyrell as a squire, a boy whose family had been willing to slaughter Renly and all Baratheons a decade ago. It was insulting, it was unconscionable — it was pure Robert.

 

At least his daughter and wife were safe on Dragonstone.

 

He glanced at Domeric. The boy was glancing around wide-eyed, clearly taken with all of it. Stannis almost sighed. A good lad Domeric might be, but his dreams of knights and chivalry were painfully naive.

 

They rode through the gate and Stannis prepared himself for days upon days of foolish merriment and political plays.

 

He was not wrong in that. The Tyrells were graceful hosts. The feasts were extravagant, with plenty of food and the finest of wines. Only the best cuts of meat were served together with rich sauces and sweet melon slices. From fireplums to peaches to suckling pig and beyond — everything was delicious. Everything tasted of the ashes of the past. It was a far cry from eating rats and hoping not to starve. It made Stannis grit his teeth when he wasn’t carefully watching those around him move and dance to the strange music that was politics.

 

The tension was there, subtly simmering beneath the surface. It was in the glances that the Dornish lords sent him and the royal family, the way that ladies laughed and eyes met. Robert, at least, wasn’t blind to them. Sometimes his hand clenched around what Stannis presumed to be his imaginary warhammer. His brother looked better than he had in years, fitter and more vibrant, clean shaven and oozing the charisma that had enraptured so many in the past. It was startling to see him like this and Stannis didn’t know if it was a good change, didn’t like being reminded that Robert had his good qualities — Jon Arryn spoke of them frequently enough — and that he showed them to others, only not to his own true brothers.

 

It was clear that the kettle of suppressed violence and hatred only needed a single spark for it to boil over.

 

The first spark came with the joust.

 

The stands were full, the sun shining and the banners of various Houses rose and fell upon the slight breeze that swept from the Mander over the tourney grounds. Domeric had once again disappeared, though Stannis didn’t begrudge the boy his fun. The lad was getting along very well with those in attendance, his genuine excitement and awe pleasing the knights and his skills with the harp and courteous manners charming the young maidens. He could go where Stannis could not and hear things that Stannis didn’t.

 

Robert gave a rousing speech, the crowd cheering and clapping as the event began. Stannis glanced around. Cersei sat next to Robert, resplendent in Lannister-red, not looking at all at her husband or at the knights exchanging lances. To her left was Joffrey, also in red, from time to time looking up to the joust before continuing to talk quietly with an Essosi looking man of his entourage. Stannis frowned. Jon had told him worrying things about how this new religion was spreading, was trying to put their claws into the royal family itself. Stannis had never cared for any kind of religion — his parents’ fate made sure of that — but he knew well what effect two lions in the same cage had.

 

The spectacle continued as knights upon knights fell from their horses, broke their lances and were carried off while the victors were cheered on by the crowds. Ser Barristan fell to Jason Mallister. Lyle Crakehall defeated Ryman Frey. Yohn Royce was felled by a Hightower. On and on it went until only two were left.

 

“That’s your Uncle Renly there, lad,” Robert’s voice boomed as little Tommen, his face so much like his father’s, giggled on the King’s knees. That the young boy could understand anything at all of what was happening here, Stannis doubted, but at least Robert wasn’t neglecting his second son as he had the first.

 

In front of them, Renly waved at the crowd, his enameled green armor glinting in the sun and the golden antlers more tacky than threatening. Young maidens sighed wistfully and Stannis scowled again. Domeric had told him once that such men were called “summer knights” in the North. It certainly described Renly rather aptly. Still, his younger, more popular brother had made it to the last bout. Whoever would win here would win the joust.

 

His opponent waited calmly on the other side, clad in well-made red armor with a winged helmet. The stillness with which he waited while Renly paraded around was disconcerting. Stannis’ mind quickly supplied the name of the man. Trevor Gargalen, son and heir to Lord Tremond Gargalen; a Dornishman. He had shown great skill in the earlier bouts.

 

Stannis leaned forward, his thoughts racing, his mind beginning to worry. A Dornishman and a Baratheon.

 

The two knights faced each other, steadied their lances and in unison spurred on their horses. Stannis saw Renly’s lance dip slightly and his fingers clenched the seat. A flash of red, a pained cry and his brother was lying on the ground. The masses screamed in jubilation but Stannis’ eyes were focused on his brother. Servants were already running over to him, preparing to carry him to a maester.

 

“Gods damn that bastard,” Robert growled loudly and Stannis’ attention focused on the winner, Trevor Gargalen. A wreath of roses, blood-red, were laid by him into the lap of a young woman. It took but a moment for Stannis to recognize her as a Florent, Delena Florent, if he wasn’t mistaken — Jon had introduced him to enough ladies before his marriage and the ears of the Florents were prominent indeed, though this one managed to make them fit into attractive features. He and Robert weren’t the only ones to recognize this move as a political one, because a gasp went through the crowd. The smiles on their Tyrell hosts grew forced.

 

As Robert declared the Gargalen the victor, Stannis only hoped that nothing else would happen to rock the boat that was already so full of holes. But the second spark followed that evening.

 

The preparations for the celebratory feast were underway already and, though tensions were high, the time before the celebration allowed many of hotter tempers to cool them. Robert had raged and growled in his quarters and Stannis, for there had been nobody else for his brother to vent to, had sat there silently listening.

 

“…they want war!”

 

“And you thought that they wouldn’t act out after Oberyn Martell’s grandson almost died while in the Red Keep? We can be glad that the man himself isn’t here or the result might have been even worse.”

 

“Worse? Worse?! Our brother is blinded in one eye!”

 

Renly had fallen unfortunately with a sharp stone driving itself into his eye. He would never see with it again and he had some broken bones in addition to that, but their brother would survive.

 

“He could be dead. There are many one-eyed men who can still fight ably. Renly will be fine.” If Renly was any kind of man, which was doubtful. The boy hadn’t known hardship in his life at all.

 

Robert opened his mouth, perhaps to argue again, when they were interrupted by an urgent knock on the door.

 

“What is it?!”

 

A servant raced into the rooms, panting, eyes desperate.

 

“Your Grace, my lord — the stables are burning!”

 

Stannis jumped to his feet.

 

“What?!” roared Robert.

 

“Where is the rest of the royal family?” His mind had turned quickly to the incident in King’s Landing. If the Targaryens had managed to strike at them there, what could they do here, in a former stronghold of Targaryen loyalists?

 

“Prince Joffrey and the Queen are in the Queen’s rooms. Princess Myrcella has been in the company of other noble children and safe with Ser Arys, but we cannot find Prince Tommen!”

 

“What do you mean, you can’t find him?”

 

“He was with his nursemaid, but they are gone, as is Ser Boros.”

 

“Then what are you waiting for, man? Go find the prince!” Stannis ordered when it became clear that Robert would not. His older brother remained completely still, but Stannis saw his hand tremble slightly. He turned away, uncomfortable with the knowledge, grit his teeth and began heading to the door.

 

“I will see to the situation at the stables.”

 

“Take Ser Barristan with you,” was Robert’s only reply.

 

The moment had been strangely brotherly, Stannis thought as he hurried towards the fire with Ser Barristan and a handful of his own soldiers. The wing in which the royal party was quartered was well guarded and he had little doubt that nobody would be able to get in there without permission.

 

The stables were burning brightly, the flames spiking high into the air like dangerous, ever-moving flowers. From inside they could hear the horses panicking, their neighing desperate and wild. Men and women were running everywhere, buckets in hand, trying to quell the fire. It didn’t look like it was working.

 

Quite unexpectedly, the screams from the people around the stables became louder. They were pointing at something. Stannis’ gaze followed their hands. One of the doors to the stables had already burned down, exposing a hole through which one could see inside. Something in there was moving, picking up speed. Stannis flinched back, instinctively covering his eyes even as he knew that he was too far away to be harmed. A high-pitched cry filled the air as a black horse jumped through the hole, carrying with it a rider covered completely in a dark coat. The rider fell to the ground, flames lapping at his form as he screamed for water. Servants hurried to him, dousing him with it until he lay still.

 

Stannis, too, ran forward. The form…something about the rider was familiar. What he had believed to be a coat was just a rag. The rider slowly pushed it back and unfurled his body.

 

“Domeric!”

 

His squire’s face was black from soot and his eyes tired, but it was what he was holding that was important. Clinging to Domeric was a small body, but Stannis recognized the familiar blue eyes and the face that had laughed when the boy had been placed on his knees. It was his nephew Tommen. The little boy was bawling his eyes out and shivering like a drowned cat.

 

“See, Tommen, we’ve made it out alright. You’re a good boy,” Domeric coughed, his lips were bloody, “now go to your Uncle Stannis. You’ll be safe with him.”

 

Tommen was nodding and, when he reached for the boy, the strong grip with which he hung onto Domeric transferred to Stannis.

 

“I’ve kept my eyes open, my lord,” Domeric whispered and then his eyes closed.

 

“Quickly, get the maester!” Ser Barristan ordered as Stannis remained kneeling next to his squire. The boy was still breathing, thankfully, but Stannis’ eyes were on something else. Domeric’s doublet was cut open, a wound that could only have been made by a blade oozing blood onto the ground.

 

There was no doubt in Stannis’ mind anymore. This had been an assassination attempt. One that had almost succeeded if not for his squire, and there were suspects enough in Highgarden who could have done the deed.


	13. Chapter 13

#  Eddard II 

_The situation is precarious_ , the letter had read after he had deciphered it, _though Jon Arryn’s actions have saved the city from completely falling into anarchy. Religious tensions are at an all-time high. The Faith Militant is lusting for blood. They have accused the R’hllorists of orchestrating the assassination attempt on Prince Tommen, though they thankfully did not accuse the Old Gods’ followers too. Perhaps even those fanatics deem it unbelievable, considering the heroic actions of Domeric Bolton. Any violent clashes between the Faith and the followers of R’hllor are squashed by the City Watch, though they happen still, despite best efforts, and the streets of the city run red with the blood of innocents. Many of them are leaving this madness behind. My men have encouraged those amenable to it to go north and helped them with coin and instructions. I believe you will see the fruits of our labors soon, if you haven’t yet._

_The boy is doing well. He has a good head on his shoulders and knows how to keep out of trouble. We have sped up his education due to recent events, as per your instructions. The Dornishman has been valuable in this. The Red Keep remains the safest place in the city, even if that might not say much with how things have been recently. Nevertheless, it should please you to know that Jon Arryn has finally been able to convince the king of his plans. In an effort to separate them, Joffrey has been sent to the Citadel to study and strengthen the Faith of the Seven in him — a hopeless endeavor, no doubt — and the queen has been unofficially banished to Casterly Rock. It is hoped that with such highly placed supporters of R’hllor away from the city, the religious tensions will dissipate. Another hopeless effort; the R’hllorists are not so easily shaken in their faith. But it has made the Red Keep safer and quieter than it has ever been._

_Reports of the raids of the mountain clans of the Vale have finally reached the ears of the king. He is now preparing the Faith Militant to march there and eradicate them once and for all. Hopefully, this will keep him occupied for some years, giving us time. Domeric Bolton has been invited to the campaign and, having been knighted by the king himself, he was not inclined to refuse. His warm relationship to the Baratheons might be a problem in the future. Whispers at court say that a Southron marriage, perhaps to a Crownlander or Stormlander lady, might be available to him. Even of a Redwyne marriage there have been whispers._

_Tommen has been sent to Dragonstone to learn from his uncle. Perhaps the Bolton’s heir accomplishments have colored the king’s perception of his younger brother in a positive light. Additionally…_

The words from his people in the South echoed once more in Ned’s head. As the South seemed on the verge of violent changes, the North was prospering, getting stronger, preparing. The Old Gods had given him time, giving his enemies and detractors other things to worry about. It would not last, of course, but it was better than he’d feared.

Ned leaned forward on the battlement, his eyes relishing the sight of a vibrant, strong city. He had been here once, long before construction began. Ten years ago, there had been almost nothing here apart from some small villages, but now…Dragon’s Haven was an impressive accomplishment. For eyes that had seen it as it had once been, it was even greater a feat. 

Sea Dragon Keep stood high on the cliffs overlooking the sheltered bays on each side of it, the bear of House Mormont flying over it. It was not yet quite finished — some towers and buildings did not yet stand — but even if completion was yet years away, it quieted the bad thoughts which sometimes crept upon him when he imagined the future.

Dragon’s Haven was a very defensible place, which was probably the reason the Ironborn had not landed during the Greyjoy Rebellion. There were several small coves and bigger bays with narrow, restricted entrances just big enough for a few ships to sail through. In almost all of them, the Mormonts had constructed docks, the majority of which were only available to the growing Northern navy. Only some were open to traders, visitors and fishermen. A lighthouse had been built on the biggest of the group of islands littering the sea in front of Dragon’s Haven and during the night it was a welcome beacon in these treasonous waters for both natives and foreigners who weren’t used to them. Pines that were abundant on the peninsula fed the ever-hungry shipyards that produced ships for the fleet at a speed that was frankly astonishing. All of this was supported by the quickly growing population. Young men seeking opportunity hired on as sailors and shipbuilders, some from the cities of the South, some even from as far as Essos, though mostly they were good and honest Northmen. The green copper roofs that were becoming so common in the North dotted the hills behind the docks, only stopping in respect when reaching the highest hills, for there were the ancient weirwood circles of the children of the forest.

He wondered, what would this city look like in ten, in twenty years? In a hundred?

Would these ships protecting the North go the way of those that had fallen to Brandon the Burner’s grief? The last time the North had attempted to become a seafaring power it had ended badly for them. Would this time be different?

“A sight to see, isn’t it, Lord Stark?”

Ned turned, smiled and bowed slightly. The lanky young woman moved elegantly in her leather armor, the steadfastness and courage so inherent to the Mormont women present in Dacey too. If only Jorah had had the same sense…

“Yes, yes, it is indeed, Lady Mormont.” Ned banished the grim darkness that had fallen upon him when thinking of the former Lord Mormont, now a fugitive, hoping that she had not noticed his mood. But judging from the stiffening of her shoulders and the slight frown on her lips, he must have failed.

“How is your mother?”

“Murderous,” Dacey snorted, her own eyes narrowing slightly, a shadow of that same murder flashing in them, “but the lion is good for her. She should be fine again when you reach the Wall and my uncle. A stop and some cuddling with the bearlions should calm her down some more, too.” She paused, then suddenly grinned. “Though you might want to save your sons sometime soon. They were so foolish as to agree to having my mother instruct them in the arts of war and in the mood she’s in…”

Ah, he could imagine that only too well.

“A little humility will do them some good.”

They talked some more. Dacey was indeed her mother’s daughter through and through and Ned liked her more and more the longer he talked to the young woman. Jorah…there had always been something about Jorah that Ned hadn’t liked, though in the last years he had thought that this was due to Robert knighting the man. His first impression had been the right one.

They were interrupted by more footsteps. A young man, brown-haired and with a proud bearing, stopped some feet away, bowing graciously to them. It took a few moments for him to put a name to the face. The youngest of the three Glover brothers and Dacey’s betrothed, Gawain.

“Lord Stark! And, ah…Lady Dacey…” A slight redness spread on his cheeks.

“Lord Gawain,” Dacey nodded firmly but her tone was soft.

“Lord Gawain,” Ned greeted him too, then decided that he was definitely one too many here and excused himself. As he walked away, he glanced back and saw them standing close together, talking quietly.

It was a good match, both for the Glovers and for the Mormonts. As a third son, Gawain’s prospects wouldn’t have been the best, but marrying a Mormont — the heir, at that — was certainly better than any other option the young man would have had. And the young people seemed to get along well…it certainly was a better start than his own marriage.

His walk took him down stairs and long hallways until he finally stepped into a huge courtyard. The training yard was frequently used and its size illustrated perhaps better than anything that Dragon’s Haven was mainly a military town. Normally, soldiers and sailors trained here in vicious spars against their fellows. Today, though, there was only one fight happening. The onlookers stood around them, cheering on while betting on the outcome. Ned looked around and saw his two young sons slumped bonelessly like two sacks of grain on a wooden bench. Despite their padding, they looked utterly exhausted and beaten black and blue.

“Been through the wars, boys?” he asked, one eye still on the fight.

Jon silently nodded, grey eyes focused on the two warriors sparring. Robb, though, turned and groaned.

“Lady Maege is vicious, Father. She trounced us as if we’re babies.” He scowled. No doubt his eldest was angry that he hadn’t been better. The foolishness of youth always liked overestimating one’s own abilities until one dark day it was beaten out of you. Hopefully, the boys would learn this important lesson sooner rather than later.

“And Ser Jaime sacrificed himself for us,” added Jon grimly. It sounded like a death sentence. But looking at the fight, Ned thought that it wasn’t so farfetched at all. Maege and Jaime seemed determined to kill each other; she with a fiery and violent fury that hung in the air, her mace swinging through it like an unstoppable boulder; he, defending, calmer, but with a cutting edge that could not be denied. Again and again they clashed, driving the crowd’s enthusiasm ever higher.

Ned shifted, uncomfortable. As violent as this was, there was also something else to the movements, something completely different…it would not be long now.

Several moments later Maege gave a loud cry, striking and disarming her husband in one swift, forceful move. The sunlight reflected off the sword, lying on the hard-packed dirt of the yard. Jaime glanced to it, then back to his wife, grinned charmingly and shrugged. She in turn strode to him, growled and yanked him down, clashing their mouths together just as their weapons had not long ago. The yelling and cheers became louder as the kiss grew more ardent.

This was no place for young boys, Ned decided, glancing down at the wide and curious eyes of his sons.

“Do you think that’s what Aunt Obara meant when she said ‘speared with his spear’?” Robb asked.

“No,” Jon argued, head tilted to the side, “because obviously Ser Jaime has a sword and not a spear. Besides, Lady Maege won, right?”

“Ser Jaime doesn’t look like he lost. He’s smiling — look!” Robb pointed at the man whose mouth was still firmly attached to Maege’s.

He looked very satisfied indeed.

“Alright, boys,” Ned said, “enough. Get inside and change for the evening meal. You can’t appear in your sparring clothes.”

“But Father…”

“…we want to continue watching!”

I bet you do, Ned thought darkly. By the Gods, his boys were starting to take interest in women — or at least the more intimate interactions between men and women. He remembered Brandon at that age, always chasing skirts and sticking his nose and other things into places that only brought trouble. Soon it would be time to talk to them about it…good Gods…

“No,” he ordered firmly. “Now go!”

Grumbling, the boys stood, stumbling unsteadily and, with some last few glances, walked inside.

He himself turned back to the pair still oblivious to it all. Really, this was getting ridiculous.

“Oh,” he heard himself shout in what his children called his lord’s voice, “go and get a room!”

Ned didn’t see either of them until the next morning when they departed from Dragon’s Haven on the road to Deepwood Motte, but they were not as tense as before, thankfully, and not as…affectionate.

The road was in good condition, as all roads seemed to be since the Bluecloaks had been invented. Stopping at inns or rebuilt holdfasts of the Dawnguard, they were always greeted with deep joy. The respect and loyalty Ned felt from his people was tangible and while he was flattered and glad — such reactions meant that the lives of his people were improving — he was also concerned. It was not the first time he’d heard the whispers of an independent North nor of the dissatisfaction with the South. Some part of him still hoped that there would be no war, that relations with Robert would stabilize even further, but the greater part of him knew different. If it came to war…if Jon had to be put forward as a Targaryen king, would his people follow? Or would they prefer a separate North, disconnected from the troubles that the South had brought them since Aegon the Conqueror had unified the realm?

Dark thoughts, they were; worrying thoughts…thoughts for another time…

On they rode, enjoying the hospitality of Deepwood Motte, still not yet fully finished with construction, then to Lionsfort, spending an enjoyable week with the Lannister family, before riding on and on north, along the Kingsroad through the Wolfswood, the mountains to the west and the Long Lake to the east. They passed the Last River and then, soon, they were in the territory of the Night’s Watch. The summer snows were deeper here, the weather colder than in the rest of the North. Desolate holdfasts and forgotten villages passed them by, abandoned for many, many years. It was not as Ned remembered, though. Some new villages had appeared and the Bluecloaks were seen there, securing these lonely lights of civilization against Wildling raids. Ned remembered Ben telling him that it had not been easy convincing the Night’s Watch, even with Jeor on their side. No man liked giving up his authority to another, for no man’s pride did not suffer if he did so. But it was a greater man who managed to see beyond it and achieve results. The Bluecloaks helped secure the Gift, making it safer for the common people, while the Night’s Watch concentrated on their duties. Step by step they were taking back the land from the wilderness and the Wildlings.

“Do not ride too far!” he called to his sons, who spurred their horses on, laughing. Though it was safer now than it had been for many years, it was not yet completely safe.

“Boys will be boys,” smiled Jaime next to him. “At that age, all a boy wants is to have adventures, to grow up and be like his father.” The Lannister snorted. “Not that that always ends well, of course.”

That reminded him…

“Have you heard from Tyrion yet?”

“Aye,” Jaime nodded, “he’s with Ser Brynden visiting friends. His last letter spoke of some grand plan he had, but he didn’t want to give specifics. _Jaime_ , it’d said, _I will shit gold better than even Father ever could, just you wait._ ”

An involuntary laugh escaped Ned. Yes, that sounded like the younger Lannister; quick-witted, dirty and vengeful at once.

“Heh, yes, that was my reaction too. It isn’t easy to step out of Tywin Lannister’s shadow; it probably isn’t easy to do so with one’s brother’s shadow too, I suspect.”

“Is that the reason then why he didn’t stay?”

“I believe so,” Jaime sighed, his gaze turning towards the horizon. “I had the luck of finding the North — or, perhaps, it’s better to say that the North found me. Tyrion…he will not be satisfied with anything less than what is truly his. Jon actually reminds me of him a bit.”

It would have sounded like a strange comparison for those who didn’t know either Jon or Tyrion, but it was apt. Those who were on their own, who had something to prove, were the ones who most often applied efforts to reach their ambition. It both saddened Ned and made him hope for a better future. Jon wasn’t taking things for granted, instead striving to be better in everything he did. Already, he was becoming a talented swordsman, rider and even scholar. Those were good qualities for a king or lord to have. They spurred on Robb to do better too, to not be outdone by his brother. Sometimes, Ned worried about that. With Cat finally treating Jon better, Robb had noticed. He had also noticed the attention Jon was getting, that his bastard brother wasn’t less talented than he himself was. It could breed discontent, hate, if Ned wasn’t careful.

“What was that?”

“What do you—?” But then Ned heard it too; a cry. Robb’s voice!

He was a second behind Jaime, drawing his sword as he urged his faithful horse onwards. Sounds of battle grew louder and louder and then, then they reached the curve in the road and saw it. An ambush, his mind told him. The Wildling raiding party had managed to strike down Robb’s horse — for a moment he feared the boy dead, but no, his son was still breathing — and several of the men who had ridden forward with the boys were dead. Jon, eyes cold and mouth set in a tense line, stood in front of his brother, his dagger held in both hands as he swung it quickly, holding off the Wildlings who tried to get close. And then there was no time for anything but fighting and trying to not get killed. 

As he ran another Wildling through — his eyes…hate…hate…hate…Gods, even the Ironborn hadn’t looked at him like that — his mind noticed that this was a rather large group; had the situation at the Wall grown so lax, so desperate?

Next to him, Jaime laughed, goading his opponent on, “Come on, you uncouth little fool! Is this all you’ve got?! My wife hits harder than you!”

…which was true enough, he supposed, watching as Maege caved in the head of the little fool from behind.

Ned pulled the reins sharply, his horse’s hooves crushing the Wildling woman with the spear in front of him. He looked around, the lull in the fighting around him momentarily giving him time to do so, and bit back a curse. Jon was lying to the side, obviously having been knocked back by the man who now advanced on Robb. Gods damn it, he wouldn’t be fast enough! He still tried…

Jon too must have noticed what would happen. With a cry, he jumped up, hands tightly wound around his dagger’s grip, and dove forward with no regard to his own safety.

It was no easy feat to kill a man; it wasn’t any easier seeing his son taking his first life. The force of Jon’s movements gave the boy a strength he otherwise wouldn’t have had. Even without the blood, Ned would have known from the slackening of the body that the enemy was dead.

Around him, the battle died down. It was over.

He jumped down from his horse, running over to his sons. Jon’s hands were trembling, eyes staring at nothingness. The dagger fell into the snow, the red blood a gruesome contrast to the pure white. Damn it…

Hastily, Ned pulled the cap and pushed his flask into Jon’s hands, his own steadying them.

“Drink,” he ordered. The boy, bless him, didn’t hesitate. He gulped down one mouthful and then began coughing violently. It was a much harder drink than any the boys were allowed to have in Winterfell. “Drink,” Ned repeated and Jon dutifully began sipping it while Ned guided him to sit down.

He glanced at Robb and saw Jaime leaning over the boy.

“He’s fine. Unconscious but fine. Should have a massive headache when he wakes up.” Jaime stood up and stretched, then came closer and ruffled Jon’s hair. “Not bad for your first battle!”

That day they made camp earlier than usual in an abandoned tower, half of it crumbling, overgrown with dark moss and half-covered by snow and ice. Still, it gave them some shelter from the frigid wind blowing through the hills. Alyn got a good stew going. Dried meat and mushrooms — nowadays rather cheap with the cave growing method — made for a hearty meal. Jon was quiet but seemed to enjoy the praise that was heaped upon him by the others. Acceptance…in their eyes, he was now one of their own, his hands bloodied for the North.

“Such acclaim and you’re even younger than I’ve been!” Jaime laughed. “If I ain’t careful you’ll be better than I am before you even have your first beard!”

“Perhaps I should have married this wolf instead of you then?” came the amused snort from Maege. Her eyes were dancing wickedly in the firelight, her mood seemingly brightened by the fight earlier. “If his prowess is so much greater…”

Jon blushed and the men roared with laughter.

“Ah, Mace Wench,” the Lannister pulled his wife into his lap, “you know that you’d eat this cub whole in one bite. Though in some years…no doubt one of your daughters wouldn’t say no to such a fine Stark specimen…” He winked at Jon. “There’s nothing quite like a Mormont woman, trust me, boy…”

Jon’s face took on the color of weirwood leaves and the laughter rang through the air again, even louder this time.

Beside Ned Robb abruptly put his bowl down, his food almost untouched, scowled and strode away quickly into the darkness.

“Robb…Robb!”

Jon’s face grew grim, most of the levity visibly leaving him. Understanding flashed on the young boy’s face and Ned cursed the quick mind and perception of his son. He stood up himself, a hand motioning for all others to remain seated.

“I will handle this.”

Nobody contradicted him.

Robb, thankfully, had the good mind to not go too far from the camp. He sat there, on a cold hard stone, and glared into the night. The moon was shining brightly and the undisturbed snow seemed like a soft carpet between the trees. Ned stopped beside Robb and remained silent. For long minutes it stayed so. Slowly, conversation from the campfire could be heard picking up, even laughter, not as rambunctious as before but still filled with merriment.

“Are you going to sulk here all night?”

“What do you care?” his boy angrily retorted.

“I’m your father. Of course I care when it’s obvious that something’s wrong with my son.”

Robb snorted disbelievingly. His hands were fisting in his cloak, his body trembling.

“Robb, tell me what’s wrong, please. You’re my son and I love you.”

“Love me? Love me? Why would you love me when you…when you…when you have that bastard!” he spat. Ned’s hand moved quicker than his thoughts, striking the pale cheek of his firstborn.

“Do not — do not, ever — call your brother that! Do you understand me, Robb?”

The boy snorted again, Tully eyes glaring furiously at him.

“Do you understand me? Answer me!”

“…Yes,” he said and turned away.

“And now tell me why you called your brother that.”

“You want to know? Do you, really?”

“Yes.”

“That ba-,” Robb swallowed the word, gritting his teeth, then glancing away, “he is so much better than I am — in all things! He’s the better swordsman and rider! Everyone’s always praising him!” Now that he had started to talk, the boy didn’t seem able to stop. Ned wondered how long this had been brewing in Robb’s heart. “Maester Luwin always has good things to say about him…”

“Just because Jon has talents doesn’t mean that you are not talented, Robb. Everybody has different abilities, different things they’re good at. Will you truly deny your brother his successes?”

“He’s always been better at these things and I’ve known that forever,” Robb continued, staring down at his knees, his voice growing soft, “but I’ve always had something he didn’t have, would never have…I was the heir to the lord of Winterfell —“

“— you are my heir, Robb.”

“…Jon looks just like you — like a Stark should — and you’ve been teaching him how to rule, how to be a lord — I’ve noticed; don’t deny it! — and people…people have been whispering that you want to ask the king to legitimize Jon and make him your heir because he’s so much better at everything than I am…”

“Oh, Robb…”

Ned sighed, kneeling in front of his boy, pulling his son’s head against his chest and holding it there while the boy’s body shook with silent sobs.

“You are my heir and I have absolutely no intention of changing that. It doesn’t matter that you don’t have my looks. Grey eyes and dark hair are not what makes us Starks. Jon is my blood, yes, and he is getting the same education as you are, but not because I want him to take over Winterfell. What he wants to do in the future is his decision. Perhaps he’ll want to join the Dawnguard or perhaps he’ll want to have his own keep — the North is vast enough for that to happen. I want to give all my children whatever opportunities I can, do you understand, Robb? That doesn’t mean I value or love any of you more than the others.”

“Really?” Blue tear-filled eyes stared up at him.

“Really. Now, please, try to be supportive of your brother. Taking a life isn’t easy. I had not wished for any of you to do this so young. Remember: when the cold wind blows the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Loyalty, unity, love — that’s what makes us Starks Starks. Through both of you flows Stark blood; don’t ever forget.”

“I…I will, Father…”

Ned caressed the red locks of hair and hoped that this was the last time his son ever doubted his place in life.


	14. Chapter 14

#  Domeric III 

His awakening was cold and wet. He coughed painfully, his chest and arms aching in all the awful ways that he was only too familiar with. Instinctively, he tried to raise his hands to wipe the water from his face, but they didn’t move. He tried again and this time felt tight ropes digging into his wrists. What had happened? He didn’t remember…

“Awake, are you?” His head snapped up. The malice in that voice felt colder than the water.

He coughed, forcing his eyes open.

“Domeric the True, the most honorable and just and loyal knight of the Andal king…” Even had Domeric not noticed the poor quality of armor and the sword hanging at the man’s side, the strong features reminding him of home would have told him whose guest he was.

The situation…

“Domeric Bolton the Blood Traitor.”

…couldn’t have been worse.

“Nothing to say? You, who have allied with an Andal king…a king who burns down our weirwoods…a king who leads the Faith Militant against our women and children and old ones…”

Those words, spoken by the enemy; they were not the first time he had heard them, even if he only ever said them to himself in his mind. An Old Gods’ follower in the midst of knights sworn to the Seven. Doubts never spoken aloud were now laid bare.

“Well, have those heathens taken your tongue as well, Blood Traitor?”

Silence would obviously not be tolerated, he thought and then swallowed, licking his lips.

“No traitor am I, clansman. I fight for my king, to whom I have sworn oaths, oaths speaking of bravery and justice, oaths that bid me to protect the innocent and helpless. What? Would you have me be an oathbreaker, allying myself with one such as you? Rapists and thieves and raiders?”

_Remember that one’s duty to his lord and his rightful king supersedes everything else, including personal desire or misgivings. Without duty a man is left rudderless in the storm, fluttering in the wind like a loose sail. Duty gives certainty and certainty prevents mistakes. Adhere to this and you will always walk surely, Domeric. I will trust you to be my eyes and ears._

The words of Lord Stannis, said so long ago, echoed in his ears. Had he not done as he was bid all those years ago? Had he not saved Prince Tommen from certain death? The North had acknowledged the Baratheons as their rightful kings. He himself had sworn oaths. Oaths that bound him as tightly as the rope on his wrists right now.

“And what of our innocent women and children? What of them, Bolton? Are they not worthy of your protection?”

Domeric wanted to argue, to say something that would prove effective against such accusations, but the words did not want to leave his mouth.

“I see,” the man snorted, contempt twisting his features into something ugly, “you have no answer. Perhaps your conscience still lurks behind those trappings the Andals caught you in. I will leave you for now so that you might think of your true allegiance.”

A cry split the air and Domeric jumped, arms straining against the bindings. He recognized that voice! Flashes of memories came back to him suddenly. He had not been alone riding to their camp. Damon Morrigen, friend, comrade, brother-in-arms, had been with him.

“Ah, the Andal…do not worry, Bolton, he will feel our hospitality most keenly.” The clansman grinned at him, gaps in his teeth making that smile black and malicious.

Then, he was left alone.

“Gods damn it!” he growled. Damon…Damon was here with him. He had yet to enjoy the clansmen’s hospitality — were they trying to turn him, perhaps? — but Damon…Damon had stood by him all these years, had saved his life more than once.

War…war was an ugly, hideous thing. This, he had discovered since coming to the Vale. The people he was fighting against prayed to the same gods and had they been born in the North, they would have been his people. Innocents died and suffered, but such was the world they lived in. Doubts, misgivings…if he thought about them too long, he would drown in them; a boat rudderless in the storm…

Stannis’s advice had never led him in the wrong direction. Once more, he grasped onto the single thing that had always seen him through: duty. He had a duty to his king, a duty to Lord Stannis, a duty to his oaths and to his comrades. These people…they were his enemies, whether he liked it or not.

Determination renewed, he focused on trying to free himself.

______________________________________

 

“Domeric the True!” The voice of King Robert boomed through the camp, arms wide and welcoming. “Hah! I knew those bastards wouldn’t get you!”

“Your Grace, I am relieved to be back, though I fear Damon will need a healer.” Damon, indeed, was wounded gravely. Whatever else the mountain clansmen were capable of, torture was a discipline they knew well and were not hesitant to make use of.

Carefully, Domeric helped the two squires lower his wounded friend on a stretcher. Damon did not return to consciousness.

“Come, my friend, and tell me of your escape! We were already preparing to come rescue you, but it seems that once again, you were able to do without! Hah! Truly, you are my most resourceful knight! Not like one of these fuckers,” the king motioned to the camp at large, “who don’t know their heads from their dicks and need me to tell them who and what to do!” He began laughing uproariously, put an arm around Domeric and led him to the royal tent.

Spiced hot wine and a platter of the best sausages and cheeses were presented to them both and Domeric, ravenous beyond belief, helped himself to the food. In-between, King Robert urged him to tell his story and Domeric did not deny him.

King Robert listened with shining eyes, caught in the tale. Domeric had always thought of himself as a good storyteller, usually enjoying the reactions of his listeners, but this time…this time it was different.

He told King Robert how he pretended to become a turncoat, how he gained the trust of his captors — even having a hand in torturing his friend to prove himself — and then how he had one night cut Damon free and escaped on a stolen horse.

“Ha!” King Robert hit his knee in a gesture of satisfaction. “Now that’s what I call a cunning mind! Have those cunts think you’re on their side and then screw them over! Serves them right!”

Did it? The food tasted like ashes in his mouth. Did that little girl who had discovered them during their escape deserve the sword in her chest he had given her? She’d had such beautiful blue eyes…

Watching King Robert, who seemed just like a little boy drunk on songs about heroes and glory, he knew that his king’s answer would be “yes”. It didn’t make his own thoughts any lighter, didn’t destroy the heavy feeling of guilt in his soul.

He had done what was necessary. He had done his duty.

He hated himself for it.

He had gained glory and fame — had become the truest knight in the whole of Westeros, if the songs were to be trusted — and he wanted none of it.

He wanted…

“Your Grace, the last ordeal has weakened me greatly. I would ask you to allow me leave from the campaign. Surely, my presence is not needed right now?”

“You want to leave?” The King frowned.

“Only to gather my strength and regain my fighting form. You yourself have told me that things are going well, are they not?”

There was silence for a long moment and when Domeric thought that the King would not let him go, the Baratheon nodded in acceptance.

“It is true that I don’t want to lose you. Those cunts outside are half the men you are — and have not even a tenth of your brains — but you have done me good service. Very well, you have my permission.”

He did not linger long. The next morning, just as dawn was breaking over the mountains, he rode out of the camp. Damon, unfortunately, had not yet woken; but, perhaps, that was all for the better. He had been barely conscious when they had made their escape. Would his friend hate him for what he had been forced to do to gain the clansmen’s trust? Would the rescue weigh more? Domeric did not know and, maybe, he was too much of a coward to find out right now.

The road to Old Anchor, the closest port town, was a beautiful one. The Vale was a land of plenty. The closer he came to civilization, the more he saw what made this kingdom one of the richest of all. Orchards rose on hills, their branches hanging low with ripe fruits. Fields of barley, corn and wheat covered the ground as far as the eye could see like a rich golden carpet. The sun warmed both earth and rider and finally Domeric could breathe a little easier, now that blood, sorrow and death was firmly behind him. In all these years since the King’s campaign against the mountain clans had started, there had been no rest; only fighting and death. Or at least it seemed so to Domeric. He had forgotten what peace tasted like and it tasted sweet.

Four days he rode on, seeking shelter in inns or in barns of the small folk. Everywhere, he was greeted with respect and reverence. Domeric the True. They recognized his cloak, recognized his name and a tale or two was enough to gain Domeric free food or drink. These folk…they were not any less or more guilty, no less or more innocent than the families of the mountain clans.

On the fifth day, he stopped on a hill and paused, just admiring the view. Old Anchor lay before him. It was one of the largest cities of the Vale and an important port. The lands around it were one of the most fertile in the kingdom. The prosperity could certainly be seen. A large harbor spread along the coast and many ships sought refuge in it. Some, he could recognize even from where he was standing as Essossi traders, having seen them often enough during his time at Dragonstone. Others were from all around Westeros. Great walls surrounded the city, all the way from the sea and to the great castle on the hill to the north-west. The Sea Tower; home of House Melcom for many generations. He had known a son of House Melcom during the campaign — young, eager but true to his oaths — and they had gotten along well. Many Vale houses had sent younger sons to help in the campaign. Should he seek shelter in the Sea Tower? Even the thought of it…the thought of retelling his tales of “glory” again…no, he did not want that.

An hour later, he rode through the western gate. The cobbled streets and stone houses spoke well of the lords. There was no horrible stench of refuse and poverty here like there had been in King’s Landing. Indeed, the scent of the salty sea dominated. It was nicer than Gulltown, the city where he had first stepped on the soil of the Vale, and the aroma of freshly cooked seafood made his mouth water. 

Finally, he settled on a respectable looking tavern with a rather curious sign above the door. There was a dwarf in front of a galley, holding an anchor in one hand, a compass in the other and sitting on a barrel. “Golden Dwarf Tavern,” it read. A curious name, perhaps, but as long as the food was good and the wine unwatered, Domeric would be happy. After the meal, he decided, he would look for a ship to Dragonstone. It had been too long since he’d seen Lord Stannis or the rest of the Baratheons. Yes, being in Lord Stannis’s company would surely give him back his equilibrium.

“What’ll it be, ser?”

“What’s available? I’m famished.”

“Bread with forshmak, fish stew and peach pie. It’s included in the price if you stay a night. For ten silver stags, you’ll get breakfast tomorrow morning too.”

“Sounds good. Bring me some ale too.” He put the coin on the table and waited.

Only minutes later, the barmaid brought him a goblet of ale, a platter with freshly baked dark bread and a bowl of what looked like grey porridge decorated with thinly sliced red onions.

Hesitantly, Domeric took a slice of bread and plunged it into the grey goo. It tasted surprisingly good. Salty, and the onion contrasted nicely with the smooth texture, being itself rather firm and fresh.

“Wonder what’s in it…”

“Minced salted herring, soaked white bread turned into paste and some of the local oil. It’s an Old Anchor speciality; an acquired taste, as it is. Mind if I sit down?”

Domeric looked up and his eyes widened at the sight. There was only one man in the entire Seven Kingdoms who looked like this. A dwarf had spoken to him and his features were rather gruesome: mismatched eyes, a strange mixture of pale blond and black hair, and a goatee that should have made him look even more wicked than he did. As it was, the intelligence in his eyes and the welcoming smile on his face mitigated this effect. The fine clothes he wore were worthy of nobility, too.

“Tyrion Lannister, I presume?” He had heard about this man and many things said weren’t good. The Lannister dwarf had abandoned his family for the North, had fled from his father. It was a reaction he couldn’t fathom at all. “Please, sit.” It wouldn’t do to be discourteous.

“Ah, thank you.” The dwarf hopped onto the cushioned seat and groaned in satisfaction. “Bring me the usual!” He yelled to the barmaid and then grinned at Domeric. “Domeric the True, yes? Your reputation precedes you.”

“As does yours, Lord Lannister.”

The dwarf laughed.

“I’m hardly Lord Lannister anymore, am I? At least if my father had his way. Oh, don’t look like that! The whole of Westeros has heard about our little silent spat, no doubt. Well, I don’t regret it at all. After all, you are sitting in my tavern and I am the head of the Golden Dwarf Trading Company. Soon I’ll be shitting more gold than even my father ever could.”

What followed was a rather interesting conversation about trade and economy over a tasty stew.

“It would be going even better, of course, if not for those pirates.”

“Pirates? Other than the usual ones? Forgive me, but I’ve been much too busy with the campaign against the mountain clans.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s not like King’s Landing is listening when told of the danger — no doubt my father is not keen on helping out here, as it would help me too.”

“Surely Lord Lannister would not be this spiteful.”

The dwarf laughed again.

“That only shows that you know my father not at all. The prestige of House Lannister is what matters most to him — and I’m a disgrace in his eyes. No doubt your father is proud of you — a knight of renown who brought glory to his House. Congratulations, by the way.” The dwarf shrugged, unconcerned. “I’m happy as I am; probably happier than I would have been stuck in Casterly Rock.”

“You don’t regret leaving?” Leaving behind family, home and castle. It was not something Domeric ever thought himself able to do.

“Why should I? I found happiness here, found my own path. We live lives too short to not try and be happy. I guess some would say that it is my duty to continue suffering for my family, doing things that make me unhappy. But you know what? Fuck that. Good family should care about my happiness. If they don’t — what the hell are they worth then? I see it as my duty to make myself happy — and screw everyone else.”

Domeric blinked at the rant, not sure how to react. Happiness? The duty to be happy? What a strange notion. Was he himself happy? He remembered all the sorrow, all the doubts that had plagued him — still plagued him now — and decided that no, he wasn’t happy. All his life as a squire and a knight he put House and duty before him. He couldn’t put something so selfish as happiness before his ideals.

Whether he liked it or not, he was a true knight.

“Do tell me more about those pirates, please,” he decided to change the subject.

“There’s not much to tell. It’s been some years now since it started. There’s a man calling himself `King of the Pirates`. Theomore, I think he’s called. A ruthless captain who managed to bring almost all of the Stepstones under his rule. He’s backed up by his second, the one they call Ashe.”

“A woman?”

“Aye, a woman. They and their men have been robbing and capturing all the ships sailing to southern or eastern Westeros, and to southern Essos. It’s not only costing me ships, cargo and crews. Trade’s disrupted further and further and nobody seems interested to do anything about it.”

“If what you say is true, this is a major threat to Westeros.”

“True, it is. But who cares, really? As long as it doesn’t bite the big men in King’s Landing in the ass, the Crown’s not going to do anything about it.”

The solution was clear.

“I will speak with Lord Stannis. He surely will see the wisdom of curbing this Pirate King’s ambitions.”

“Stannis Baratheon?” The Lannister raised an impressed eyebrow. “Now that might work. In any case, I will be financing my own expedition to take care of the problem. Do send a letter if the Crown does decide to do something.”

They continued talking for many hours more and when they parted, they parted as unlikely friends. The next morning Domeric was on a ship heading for Dragonstone, thanks to Tyrion’s connections.

As Old Anchor grew smaller and smaller, Domeric once more wondered about his life. His childhood dreams of true knights were by now tarnished irreparably with the blood and deaths of many — such was war — and he clung to duty like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. But what was his duty? Was it duty to his king, to his House, to his ideals?

Was it a duty to himself?

He thought he’d had an answer before, but now…now he wasn’t so sure at all.


	15. Chapter 15

#  Theon II 

A storm was coming. Theon could smell it, could feel it in his blood. Soon enough, the air would be filled with warm rain and lightning in the sky. Waves would crash against the rugged coast and blood would flow once more upon Bloodstone, soaking into the earth.

Today, he would become King of the Stepstones in truth.

In the distance the mountain that dominated Bloodstone rose high in the air, welcoming him with its white snow-capped peaks, while green trees and golden fields glittered in the hot sun.

Her crimson sails pushed the Blood Wind ever further towards his destiny. Behind her, his fleet followed him without doubt or hesitation. Asha’s Black Wind sailed to his right, as it always had, and Theon grinned in anticipation.

“Excited, Your Grace?” The voice of Simeon, both beloved and hated teacher, spoke from behind him.

“It will be fun to add another salt wife to the collection, Simeon.” He had taken his first one at four-and-ten, four years ago now; a fine-boned Tyroshi girl with bright hair and lovely blue eyes. Oh, how she begged him…

Power. Nothing tasted as sweet as power.

“Perhaps you will finally take one for yourself. Fucking one of those bitches might be just the thing to get rid of that scowl of yours.”

Simeon grunted.

“I’ll lose it as soon as your ass sits on the Seastone Chair.”

“Soon enough, Simeon. This is just a first step. Maybe this scum will even put up a fight, eh?”

Simeon smirked in response.

The outcome wasn’t truly in doubt. All of the other Stepstones had fallen eventually to him and now it was Bloodstone’s turn. The son of this pirate had met them with what remained of his fleet a week ago and had died as quickly as the rest who had dared to step in his way.

All of his enemies would die and he would piss on their broken bodies.

That was his promise.

That was his destiny.  
_______________________________________________________________________

The Bloodfort was aptly named. Its red limestone walls were high and its towers gleamed in the evening sun like spikes to impale men upon them. Or perhaps cocks.

Theon smirked at the thought, blood pounding in his head as he and his men rushed forward and into the breach.

“Theomore! Theomore! Theomore!” they cried again and again as he led them to victory. Next to him, Asha buried her axe into the head of an unfortunate pirate and with a grunt pulled it out again. She looked at him and grinned before throwing a nod into the direction of a man with a rather malicious appearance.

“That’s him then!” yelled Theon to her, parrying a sword to the side and then kicking the pirate in the face. “Ladies first!”

“I ain’t no lady, brother!” his sister replied, but did not hesitate to rush their main target and engage him. Asha was good — had always been good — but the pirate was no slouch either. He attacked with quick, vicious slashes; she parried, her body sensually contorting to the side to sidestep the next attack.

Theon’s hand gripped his sword tighter, muscles suddenly both tense and relaxed as his mind began to analyze his opponent as Simeon had taught him to. Back, forth, to the side. Steel on steel. There!

With swift steps he was next to her, sword swinging to the left of the pirate. Instinct and reflexes focused his enemy’s eyes on him for a split-second as he moved to intercept Theon’s attack. It was enough. In a maneuver that they had used countless of times Asha’s axe buried itself deep in the pirate’s side. The man half-growled, half-screamed as he noticed his mistake, then fell to the ground.

“Good one, sweet sister!” Theon smiled and with an overhead swing cut the head from the body. Around them, their men roared in approval and fought even harder. After that, victory came quickly.

When morning finally arrived there was no resistance in the Bloodfort anymore — or, indeed, on Bloodstone at all. The island was his. The Stepstones were his. Theon savored the feeling as he stood on one of the many terraces of his new fortress.

The storm had broken in the late hours of the night and a red dawn bathed his lands in vibrant colors. It was so much more than what he remembered the Iron Islands — dark, cold and broken — to be. Sometimes, in the depths of his soul, he wondered whether they were worth the trouble, but then he remembered his weeping mother, his dead brother and father, and knew that vengeance was always worth the cost.

“A mighty kingdom!” whispered Asha next to him.

“The first step,” he countered, “and others will follow. Westeros is falling apart. We will have our revenge, sister.”

“If you are patient. I’ve heard that you’ve increased your raiding on Westerosi ships. We’re not yet ready to take them on, no matter how much internal strife Westeros experiences.”

“Some would call your caution cowardice, sister.”

“And some would call your boldness idiocy, brother.”

They stared at one another. Theon sighed and the tense lines around his sister’s eyes relaxed.

“Just…do not be too hasty. Our father lost because he was not prepared enough. I do not want this happening to you, brother.”

“It won’t.”

It couldn’t.

“Come, sister,” he said, not wanting to argue about a topic that inevitably drove them apart, “let us see if there’s a salt husband here for you to take. The men should be done rounding them up.”

They walked inside and to the throne room. With a sigh of satisfaction Theon sat down. Once upon a time Daemon Targaryen had sat where he was sitting, ruling the Stepstones from this seat. Now it was his. Now it was Theon Greyjoy’s.

“Let them in.”

The men obliged and lined the women up. Young, beautiful, with ripped dresses that showed off their assets quite nicely. Some were crying. Others were just staring down. Theon took his time, desire stirring the longer he looked. The pirate had had good taste. From the olive skin that marked a Dornish to fair Valyrian features everything was there, ready to be tasted and sampled. But Theon’s eyes settled on one in particular. Golden hair and green eyes.

“You there, girl, what’s your name?”

Arys pushed the girl forward and she stumbled a few steps, green eyes glancing at him and then down.

“L-….Lana, ser.” She spoke in a Westerlander accent. Theon’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s `Your Grace` for you, wench.” Arys grunted behind her, pushing her down to her knees.

“From the Westerlands, are you, girl?”

“F-from Lannisport, Y-your Grace.”

“A Lannister then.”

“N-no, Your Grace! Just a trader’s daughter…”

Theon raised an eyebrow, then smirked.

“I’ve no doubt that you have Lannister blood; those greenlanders breed like rabbits. Take her to my rooms. I will show her exactly what I think of Lannisters and their ilk.” The girl began to sob, growing louder and louder. “Now! Before she floods this hall with her tears, Arys!”

“Aye, Your Grace,” the man nodded and pulled her up by the arm, dragging her out through a door to the side. The pleas grew fainter quickly and then disappeared entirely.

This one would be loud, thought Theon, and trouble at first.

But it would no doubt be worth it. Cersei Lannister, wife of that greenlander king, was said to have golden hair and green eyes. The fairest and most beautiful woman in the whole of Westeros. This one…she would do as a substitute for that bastard king’s bitch. For now.

“Men! These,” he motioned to the other women, “are yours to share! Let it not be said that your king doesn’t take care of your needs!” His decision was met with a loud roar of approval. “And now bring the men in so that my sister might enjoy the fruits of her labor too!”

Asha took her time, stopping at each of them, caressing some and staring others in the eyes, asking questions here and there.

Theon rolled his eyes.

“Come now, sister, they are here for you to fuck them, not listen to them prattle.”

“Forgive me, brother, for wanting a bit more than just a Lannister look-alike for my bed.”

Her words they might have been, but she decided quickly after that on a fair youth with Valyrian coloring. He followed her out of the hall like a dog followed his master.

The crowd dispersed. Today his men would celebrate; tomorrow, it would be back to work. Ruling, as he had learned, was a tiresome business.

But that was tomorrow.

He opened the doors to his chambers and saw his price secured to the bed. Theon reached for his breeches and undid them, desire burning brightly in his body. Green eyes widened.

Theon smirked.

It was good to be king.


	16. Chapter 16

#  Jon III 

Jon danced gracefully out of the way of the practice sword, his own weapon coming down to try and push Robb’s out of his brother’s hand. The loud clang echoed in the cool morning air and he felt his muscles strain against Robb’s strength. His brother gritted his teeth and Jon disengaged, knowing that though he was quicker his brother was stronger. But brute force wasn’t everything.

His brother stumbled forward, not expecting the sudden lack of resistance and could do nothing as Jon smacked him on the back, ending their bout decisively. Robb fell to his knees, his right hand gripping his sword tightly. There was tension in his shoulders and the badly hidden rage in his words spoke clearly and loudly of unacknowledged things: “Gods damn it, Snow!”

Jon saw it all and continued as if nothing had happened.

“Do you want to spar again?”

There was a pause, then, “No.”

Without a backward glance, Robb took his sword and left.

The training yard was filling up now and some men who had seen the end of his fight came over to congratulate him. But victory tasted bitter in Jon’s mouth. Should he have apologized? For what? For being better than Robb at fighting? Perhaps…perhaps if this had been years ago, he would have. He was a bastard, yes, but he was also Robb’s brother, wasn’t he? Did Robb not recognize that? Their father was proud of his accomplishments, encouraged him to do well, like he did all his children. Did Robb being true born mean that he, Jon, had to sacrifice what pride he had for Robb’s?

The more he thought of it, the angrier he got.

“Excuse me,” he said to the men, lips trying to smile, though it probably looked more like a grimace, no doubt. He left the training yard quickly.

Stowing away his equipment, he did not return to his room. Inside…inside was Robb…no.

Instinctively, his feet began walking, first alongside the castle walls and then into the godswood. Winterfell was beautiful, he mused, and the godswood with its ancient trees and calming solitude had always had the effect of silencing the troubling thoughts that sometimes rose up in his mind like the hot waters from the pools inside this wood. Today, though, his troubles weren’t washed away.

Righteous anger turned to bitterness. When had his relationship with Robb deteriorated so? There had always been…something there. When Father had taken both him and Robb on his travels through the North; yes, that’s when it had all begun. And then the ride to the Wall…Jon shivered. The sight had been such a wondrous one. That humans, an ancestor of his, even, had built that thing…even with the aid of magic, it was such an awesome achievement. But even those feelings of his had been overshadowed by Robb’s reaction to him having taken his first life. Jealousy. He had seen it clearly in his brother’s eyes — and couldn’t understand it.

As he looked around at the mighty towers and ancient walls of Winterfell, he abruptly felt that, though he loved his family, loved his home, he wasn’t comfortable here anymore. Someday, when Father was gone, this would be Robb’s and the way things were going now…would he be welcome here? Robb had so much, would gain so much more someday. Jon didn’t begrudge his brother that fortune; so why — why — would Robb be jealous of the small things that Jon could call his own?

It wasn’t fair.

Laughter interrupted his thoughts. Jon glanced up and saw, unsurprisingly enough, his younger brother sitting high upon the wall separating the godswood from the glass gardens. His feet were swinging up and down and his beaming smile lit up his Tully face. Unwillingly, the sight softened something inside Jon and his lips twitched up slightly.

“Climbing again, Bran? If you’re not careful, you’ll fall and the Others will come and get you! Didn’t Old Nan tell you that?” Truthfully, every time Jon saw Bran climbing, his heart clenched in fear. Bran was good, yes, but there was always the chance that he would misstep.

His brother, predictably, just laughed gaily.

“Old Nan’s stories are boring! Everybody knows that the Others are just legends told to frighten little children! But I’m no child anymore, Jon!” Bran quickly scrambled down the wall, turned around and straightened his back as much as he could. There was a proud glint in his eyes.

“So…what are you, if you aren’t a child anymore, Bran?” Jon smiled.

“I am now a page!”

“A page?” Jon blinked.

Bran nodded eagerly.

“Oh, yes! Father agreed! I wanted so long to become a knight and now I have the chance! Father’s going to foster me in Lionsfort and I’ll be the page and later squire of Jaime Lannister himself! Can you imagine it, Jon?” Bran gushed, small fists clenched in excitement. “Page to the White Lion! To a hero of the North!”

Jon couldn’t imagine it. He still remembered Bran as a small babe, reaching with his little hands for him, the big brother. And now…now Bran was going away from Winterfell to become a knight?

Jon’s hands grew cold, but he made sure to freeze the smile on his face, ruffling the auburn hair.

“Congratulations, little brother. I know how much you dreamed of this.” And that was true. For years now, since little Bran first heard his mother’s tales of great knights, glory and innocent maidens, his brother wanted to become just like that: a hero in a fairytale. The stories of the South were much more to Bran’s taste than the horrors Old Nan told during cold nights at the fire.

“And now my dream’s coming true!” Bran grinned up at him. “Do you want to come to the kitchens with me? There’s lemon cakes!”

“I…no, thank you. You run along.”

And as quickly as Bran had appeared was he gone again. Jon walked on.

Winterfell was changing. Bran was reaching for his dreams and he? What was he doing? Father was preparing him for a lordship, teaching him how to rule, how to lead and how to manage a fief. Father was giving him those things. But there was one thing Father couldn’t give him — a name.

Robb had called him Snow. As long as he stayed here, remaining under his family’s care and Robb’s jealousy, he would remain Snow. No matter what he was given, he would remain Snow.

The sounds of hooves on stone and laughter grew louder. A patrol of Bluecloaks rode through the North Gate, boisterous and confident — and Jon knew. This…this was his future. It only took courage to do. Bran had the bravery to go forward, running after his dream; could Jon do the same? Joining the Bluecloaks, working his way up and, with luck and skill, one day gaining the right to be one of the Wintersworn, a Northern Knight. The prize…a name which he had earned. It would not be an easy path. The Wildling attacks had intensified in recent years, now a constant that plagued the northern half of the North. But that misfortune created opportunity; opportunity he only had to grasp.

Was this a strange fancy that suddenly struck him? Or a good plan?

Jon sat there for a long time, watching the Bluecloaks, watching the people of Winterfell go about their business, until finally he was certain. Steps as sure as they had not been for long, he walked to his father’s solar.

“Father…I need to speak with you.”

His father nodded and they sat down.

“Father…I want to join the Bluecloaks,” he finally said. Father didn’t reply, though his eyes widened, simply waiting for Jon to elaborate. It was unnerving. Was this how others saw Jon? They always told him how similar to Father he was.

“I’m good with a sword and a fair fighter. I could do good in the Dawnguard and they need people, what with all the attacks coming from the Wildlings…”

“…But that’s not why you want to go, is it, Jon?”

“…No. I…I want to go for myself, Father. I want to earn my future. You are giving me everything — and I’m grateful, I truly am! — but…in the Dawnguard I can prove to myself that I am worthy of everything you are giving me. I can earn my future.”

“Earn a name,” his father finished for him, as perceptive as ever.

“…yes.”

“Oh, Jon,” his father sighed, the lines in his face softening, suddenly not as foreboding, “I look at you and I see still the little boy who sat on my knees. But you have grown, so much. You are no longer a little boy anymore, though I might wish it. You come to me with the thoughts and troubles of a man grown — and I can no longer ignore that.”

Father stood up and motioned him to follow. Next to the solar was a room he knew very well. He had come here regularly, dreaming and wondering. Father had commissioned the map table when Jon was still little and since the artisans had finished it Jon had been fascinated. It was a large table, carved and painted in the form of the whole North. From the Wall to the Neck, it showed the vastness and greatness of the North. His father had once told him that there was one such table for the whole of Westeros in Dragonstone, but Jon could scarcely believe that something even greater than this could be made. Fashioned from rich woods, precious stones and carefully painted, it showed holdfasts and forests, the sea and the roads. Here and there were the coats of arms of the Northern houses, but vast traces of land were empty, belonging only to the North and House Stark.

“I knew this day would come, eventually,” his father said. “You are wolf-blooded, even as it is not as obvious as in some Starks. In that way, you are like me. Had the Rebellion not happened…I might have searched for a different way to prove myself. As it is, fate and the gods chose the path I have taken for me. You have chosen yours. But have you thought of what will come after?”

“After?”

“After you’ve finished your service with the Dawnguard. This is not the Watch; you will want a family, a wife and children, someday.”

“And if I don’t?”

His father smiled, ruffling his hair like he had done with Bran earlier, and Jon felt like a little boy all over again.

“Then you don’t and I won’t force you. But it is a father’s privilege to look out for his children, so let me do this, Jon.”

“Do what, Father?”

“This.” His father took a little figurine of a holdfast and set it down, right next to the High Lakes in the Lake Mountains. He remembered the place. Once, when they had been returning from the Rills, they had travelled through the Lake Mountains and then the Wolfswood to Winterfell. In his mind’s eye the high mountains rose all around him, snow-capped peaks towering above and cradling the light-blue, almost green lakes between them. Evergreen trees everywhere around him and half-ruined, moss-covered holdfasts not lived in for centuries. Jon remembered liking the solitude, the vibrant colors of it all.

“A holdfast? Truly?”

“It’s not the richest, but it is a good place and not too far from Winterfell. Your own fief. With the refugees streaming north from the conflicts in the South, there will be enough people to build up some villages and towns.”

“I…alright, Father.”

Father put an arm around him and squeezed his shoulder and Jon sighed, smiling slightly. The future…perhaps it wasn’t so bad. Now there was a path he could walk.

“We’ll tell the family this evening.”

____________________________________________________________________

They announced it during dinner and the reaction varied. There was a cheer from the Bluecloaks’ table.

“Another wolf in our midst!”

“Another Stark!”

And though he was no Stark, not in name at least, it gave him courage, both to leave at the end of the week and to face Arya. Of all his family, Arya took his leaving the hardest. The only one of his siblings who looked like him, like the Starks of old, and she wielded guilt like the sharpest of swords.

“Why are you leaving?” She scowled, the perfect picture of dismay. “It’s because of that idiot, right? It’s all Robb’s fault!” His little sister also saw far too much for her age.

“No, it isn’t Robb’s fault.” Even if it felt like it kind of was. “He hasn’t said anything that I haven’t thought of myself. This is something I have to do, little sister. I’m reaching for my dream.”

“And you can’t do that here?”

“Not if I want to make a name for myself, Arya. Not if I want to be something other than a Snow.”

“That’s stupid,” she remarked after a short silence. “No matter what you’ll do, you’ll still be you, my brother Jon. People calling you Snow or something different won’t change who you are.”

“But it’ll change how people see me, how they talk to me, just as much as it’ll change how I see myself.”

“That sounds…really too difficult, Jon. You’re thinking too much and it’s making you stupid.”

“Well…perhaps.” He laughed. “But maybe that’s the way the world is. Most people aren’t as smart as you, little sister, so the world keeps getting complicated.”

Arya still didn’t look all that satisfied, but maybe she knew that he wouldn’t change his mind. With a fierceness that accompanied all of her actions, she threw herself at him, hugging him tightly and burying her face in his chest.

“Promise me, Jon…promise me that you’ll never forget us. And that you’ll write — and visit! And that you’ll always stay my brother, no matter what name you’ll be called.”

“I promise.” Like he could do anything else.

“Good. And when I’m old enough I’ll join the Dawnguard too! And then I’ll become one of the Wintersworn just like you and we’ll battle Wildlings together!”

“Together, little sister.”

And that was fine too.

___________________________________________________________________

The final goodbye was done in the courtyard by the South Gate. His horse was saddled, the supplies and clothes packed well in the saddlebags. Jon would be accompanying some Bluecloaks to Moat Cailin, where his training would begin in earnest.

Hugs and kisses were given in farewell. Jon had never imagined when young that Lady Catelyn would have warm words for him if he ever left Winterfell. But here she was, the warmth of a mother given freely.

“Take care of yourself, Jon.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Sansa, did you not want to give something to Jon?”

His sister blushed slightly, but came forward nonetheless.

“I…yes…it is not much, but here, I have done it myself,” she handed him a piece of cloth. A dire wolf, fierce and proud, was done in intricate stitches upon white silk. A favor. “So that luck and the gods go with you, brother.”

“I’m no knight yet, but thank you, Sansa,” he replied and was given a beaming smile in return. Carefully, he tucked the favor into his belt.

Arya hugged him once more, whispering her love for him fiercely, and Bran and Rickon wished him good luck. Then, he was standing in front of Robb. An awkward silence fell between them.

“Good luck, brother.” Robb finally held out his hand and Jon gripped it in a warrior’s farewell. “I wish you well.” And Jon heard no lie in his words. He nodded.

“And I wish you well too. Learn to be a good lord of Winterfell, brother.”

“I will.” Robb smiled. Jon could only hope that this feeling of brotherhood would remain when they met again.

And then there was only Father to say goodbye to. The man’s solemn features were kind as he clasped a hand over Jon’s shoulder.

“I know that you will make me proud, son,” he said. “You are a man now and will make a man’s decisions. This will hopefully be of use to you.” Father offered him the sword in his hands. It was a simple bastard sword in a simple scabbard, but it had Mikken’s mark on it and was sharp when he pulled it out. There was a wolf’s head for the pommel.

“Thank you. I hope I will be worthy of it.”

“I do not doubt it. Remember to write.”

Jon nodded and with this last farewell said he pulled himself up into the saddle, glancing around Winterfell so as to burn his home and family into his mind for one final time, before turning away. Through the gate and down the road. The open hills of the North awaited him. As his companions fell in beside him, he withstood the desire to turn around.

Looking back would be the action of a boy, a child.

He was a child no longer.

His path was right in front of him.


	17. Chapter 17

#  Cersei I 

It was maddening. At first, there had been rather frequent contact. But for the last few months… No letters, no ravens, no information at all about how her darling son was doing. Was this Robert’s fault? But, no, the brute was off in the Vale, playing at being knight and no doubt wenching and drinking his life away. Jon Arryn, then…oh, how she despised the man! It was his fault — all his fault that she had been sent away to Casterly Rock and her darling Joffrey abandoned into exile in the Reach, surrounded on all sides by heathens.

Eight years it had been since she had returned to her childhood home. Eight years of humiliation, watching her father’s new wife strut arrogantly in the den of lions, while she — a lioness born and bred! — had to follow behind, bending her head to stolen authority. Soon…no more.

Lions, too, had claws — and lionesses had the sharpest of them all. She smirked. She hated the waiting, hated being so powerless, but she would endure, would wait before she pounced. Her vengeance would be so much sweeter.

Cersei looked into her mirror, adjusted the red silk a bit and brushed an errant lock of hair to the side so that it fell onto her bare shoulders. A bit risqué, true, but effective. More than three decades had passed since her birth, but she looked as beautiful as she had when she had married that lout Robert and no older besides. R’hllor be praised for it and His rituals. The Red God had given her more than any men in her whole life had: a weapon fitting for her hands.

Cersei took some steps back and forth and nodded, satisfied. The new dress shifted just in the right way in all the right places. With a smirk she turned and made her way to the training yard where, as expected, he was finishing up his daily sparring. Her eyes roamed across the bare, glistening chest and to the golden locks that fell to his shoulders. Tyson Lannister was by now eight-and-ten, truly a man grown in body and in ability. There was no equal in all of the Rock that could challenge him in a fight. So much like him…so similar in looks and attitude. She would not let the second chance the Lord of Light had given her slip into the shadows like he had.

Tyson helped his opponent up from the ground, laughing gaily. He looked around and his grin widened as he saw her. With unhurried steps he walked up to her, bowing slightly.

“My Queen,” he greeted her, and she waved her hand dismissively, watching in satisfaction as his eyes briefly focused on her shoulders.

“Have I not told you, my Lord Tyson,” she breathed, “to call me Cersei?”

“My mother thought it disrespectful,” he admitted with a rueful shrug.

Ah, the Bitch. A thief and usurper she might have been, but the Vale bitch wasn’t stupid. Her blue eyes saw far too much. But that matter would be resolved soon enough…

“How kind of dear Lady Ysandra to worry about propriety. But do not worry, my Lord Tyson,” she leaned closer and saw his nostrils flare as the scent of the oils she had taken care to apply hit him; blood oranges and orchids were a potent combination, “for you could never be disrespectful. You are very dear to me — and family besides — so it is your queen’s command that you call me Cersei.”

He swallowed and then nodded. When he answered, his voice was deliciously strained.

“Very well, Lady Cersei.”

Giving him a warm smile, she took his arm in hers, feeling him shiver at the sensation, and shifted just so that her right breast pressed lightly against him as she began leading him from the training yard and into the castle proper.

“Come now, Lord Tyson, you would not want to miss the midday meal. I have heard that the kitchens outdid themselves today.” At her command at that. Some of those foods would no doubt fire those Lannister passions that burned in this young man.

“Indeed,” a most unwelcome voice interrupted them. Clad in a blue that showed how much of being a lioness she lacked, Ysandra Lannister’s eyes took in her son, Cersei on his arm and narrowed. The Queen almost felt the hostility flow from the sow. “Cold meats and plenty of lettuce. Just the right food for this…hot summer day.”

Cersei’s smile grew brighter and she made an effort to keep her voice light and polite. It would not do to ruin things so close to the goal.

“Certainly Casterly Rock must be much hotter than what you are used to, Lady Ysandra. The Vale is such a lonely, cold place. I will forever be grateful that Father brought you here —”

“ — no doubt.”

“But you look a bit tired, my lady. Perhaps the sun is too hot for you? Some Lady’s Mantle tea should be just the thing for you; I’ve heard it works wonders.” Wonders with sagging breasts, that is.

The bitch’s eyes had narrowed further — and, oh, the fury in them — and it took no effort at all to maintain her smile. Cersei gave Tyson a last pleasant squeeze and gracefully nodded at them both.

“In any case, I will see you soon.”

“Your Grace,” the bitch bit out.

“Your Grace,” Tyson echoed but she could feel him staring at her all the way up as she ascended the stairs. She gave her hips a little extra twist and smiled.

______________________________________________________________

“So? Tell me!” she growled impatiently, watching the handsome Ser Eric Lantell kneel in front of her.

“The Harbinger is in good health, my Queen, and still follows the true faith. He has forged links of Valyrian Steel, iron, silver, steel, copper and brass. All who know him agree that the Prince will be an enlightened ruler once on the throne. King Robert’s men guard him carefully and try to make sure that none of ours would come close to him, but the Lady Melisandre is blessed by our Lord and has managed to keep close contact with the Harbinger, my Queen. She has inducted him personally into the more powerful rituals and kept him on the Path.”

“I see. And the lack of communication? Robert’s doing, no doubt?”

“Yes, my Queen. King Robert’s men make sure to screen all letters and visitors to the Prince, following Jon Arryn’s orders to the letter. It is almost impossible to be of the true faith and do what is necessary, but the Harbinger has been graced with a great mind, Your Grace, and has proven adept at deceiving the heathens. Most think him returned to the false gods’ embrace. It is not so.”

So it was as she had feared. Those who kept Joffrey from her were the ones she had suspected. Thank the Lord for Melisandre, who would keep her son’s flame burning brightly in the face of the approaching shadows. She would not lose Joffrey as she had lost his father…

But first things first. There was a thorn that had plagued her too long now. It was time to pluck it out and throw it away.

Cersei stood. The light lace robe did not hide anything from the eyes, but Ser Eric kept his head down, kneeling in obeisance. She reached out, her hands caressing his golden hair, his ear and jaw until she pushed it up and gazed into his devoted eyes.

“You have done me and R’hllor a great service.”

“You are my Queen and the Mother of Azor Ahai; no service is great enough,” he whispered.

“I will require your discretion and your conviction again soon.”

“Anything, my Queen.”

She gave him a smile.

“But first,” she undid the belt holding her robe together, exposing her naked front to the air, body already waiting eagerly for what was to come, “let me reward you for your service. Let me show you the Light of R’hllor. Drink your fill from the flames and quench your thirst. Drink! And be blessed!”

“Yes,” he groaned, “my Queen.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Ser Eric proved to be thorough in his duties. When his thirst was finally sated and his sword sheathed, he was most eager to unsheathe another sword entirely and return to her service.

The time the fruits of her careful machinations showed were that day at the evening meal. Fortunately, the table was rather empty. Aunt Genna had gone back to King’s Landing last month, having delivered the news of Myrcella’s education and well-being personally. Her father was, as so often, on another journey to King’s Landing. With Jon Arryn back in the Vale, the capital needed a firm hand to rule it.

She did not think of her brothers, locking the envy that always rose up at the thought that both her brothers had freed themselves from their chains away. She was queen and soon would have her power returned to her, one way or another.

“Have you seen Mother this evening, per chance?” Tyson asked. She put down her knife daintily and shook her head.

“I have not, Lord Tyson, though did she not head into Lannisport after the midday meal? Some important business that has held her up, perhaps?” she suggested.

“I have seen her in the Stone Garden not two hours ago, my lord.” Lydia Estermont was the kind of girl that Cersei despised: demure, passive and utterly willing to do what the menfolk told her. The girl caressed her heavily pregnant belly. “Perhaps she is still there?”

It appeared as good an idea as any to Tyson for he summoned a guard and bid him to call his mother.

“Maybe she wants some alone time,” Maron Greyjoy — dark-haired, lean, one-armed and smirking — suggested. “Marvelous place for some…relaxing activities.”

Tyson glared.

“My mother has not missed a single meal when in the Rock; I would not want her to start missing it now.”

But Ysandra Lannister did not appear during the evening meal nor after. When night had fallen and she remained missing, guards and servants were sent to scour the castle for her.

“We will find her, Tyson.” Cersei laid a calming hand on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. “Do not worry so.”

The young man’s frightened eyes looked at her and she saw that he wanted to believe her, wanted his mother to be found quickly and in good health.

“I cannot help it,” he sighed leaning backwards and into her embrace.

“Hush,” she pushed his locks from his eyes, holding him firmly to her side. “All will be well.”

They remained seated on the settee, waiting. The news came one hour after midnight. Ysandra Royce Lannister had been found, neck snapped by a fall from a balcony. Her body had lain for some hours on the rocks. There had been nothing the maester could do.

“No! No!” Tyson’s knees buckled and she moved beside him, lending her strength.

“A horrible accident, my lord,” the maester said, eyes sorrowful. “She must have slipped on the wet stones. It would not be the first time such things happen. Tragic, certainly, but it was quick. She did not suffer.”

He looked pale, trembling and not at all in control of himself.

“Come, Tyson,” Cersei said gently, hands guiding him towards the door and away from the body, “you must rest. Dora, make some red sage tea and leave it in Lord Tyson’s rooms. That’s just what he needs now.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

When they arrived the tea was already on the small table. Quickly ordering her people not to let them be disturbed this night, she sat down beside him, pushing a cup of tea into his hands and ordering him to drink.

“A nerve tonic; it will do you good.” He obeyed, his despondent gaze staring into nothingness.

“My mother…” It was the pained whine of a wounded animal and Cersei opened her arms wide, her voice strong but compassionate.

“Come…come…let it out…”

He collapsed in her arms, sobbing, and she pressed his face to her bosom, stroking his hair like that of a little boy as he let out his grief. He fell asleep in her arms.

____________________________________________________________________

Hours before dawn he stirred. His face had moved as had her dress and her neckline had gone down, exposing much more than was proper. The blue eyes were bleary from sleep but it took only a moment for him to notice his position. He tensed and she felt his body react in a way only a man’s could. The red sage tea was working then. Good.

“My Queen…”

“Cersei,” she interrupted him, smiling softly.

“…Cersei,” he repeated somewhat brokenly, “I…forgive me…I…”

“What is there to forgive? You needed help and I am willing to help you.” Her hand drifted lower, caressing the patches of bare flesh below, where his shirt had clumped up during his sleep. He shifted in all the wrong — or, perhaps, right — ways and groaned.

“I…I…this is…this is not appropriate,” he tried again, though he seemed to have trouble keeping his gaze from the mesmerizing sight in front of him. “You are my sister…”

“Half-sister, if that,” she corrected. “The dragons were much closer to each other and nobody thought it inappropriate.”

“But they were Targaryens…”

“And I am a queen.” She squeezed and his eyes widened.

“The King…”

“…has exiled me here to be free to wench and drink to his heart’s content,” she finished for him. “Of course, if you do not find me desirable…”

“No! No…you are beautiful.” He said it like it was a horrible secret, but she beamed at him and his breath caught.

“Then let me help you with your sorrow, Tyson. Let me chase away the shadows.” One of her hands moved to his face, tracing soft patterns across it. “Happiness, you will see, is the best medicine against it.”

She leaned forward, caught his lips in a first kiss and felt his resistance melt away. His eyes were burning with desire for her, his body taut and ready. Cersei tilted her head back, pressed his down into her cleavage and smiled.

She had won.

________________________________________________________________________

Sorrow hung over Casterly Rock the next day and so it was not difficult to affect a similar emotion. Inside her mask, Cersei was jubilant. Tyson was a lion in truth — hesitant at first, but willing to learn and all youthful passion in the end. He had kept her awake for hours.

He would do very well.

“Masterfully done.”

Maron Greyjoy stepped from behind a pillar, smirk arrogant and knowing.

She raised an eyebrow even as she thought furiously. What did he know? Did he know anything? The rooms had been secured by people loyal to only her — true believers. He could not know.

Without prompting he continued.

“A misfortune befalling the Lady of the Rock and now her son, covered in grief, found solace and compassion in the arms of the Queen. A romance for the song — truly!”

“A terrible tragedy and a loss to the Westerlands has happened. That is not the time for your japes, Lord Maron,” she told him drily.

“I think it’s just the time.” He walked around her, almost prowling and forcing her to tilt her head. She would not give him the satisfaction of turning. “So,” he asked, his voice becoming gravelly, “is he a good fuck?”

Quite good, she thought to herself.

“Your coarse humor is not appreciated, Lord Maron,” she told him coldly. “Have the decency to cease your attempts at lightening the mood or there might be…consequences.”

The Greyjoy laughed.

“Ah, he is good then.” He began walking away, but stopped after a few meters. “If you ever tire of lions, do consider having some squid — tentacles are a marvelous thing, after all. Not that my wife could appreciate them right now.”

“Cut off and covered in blood red, perhaps,” she spat.

“Oh! I think I’d like your type of solace and compassion indeed!”

He left her standing there, his laughter echoing in the empty corridor.


	18. Chapter 18

#  Bran I 

Giggling and excited clapping spurred him on and Bran grinned wildly as he reached for the next branch. He could see the path laid out before him, right to the very top where his prize hung. As the bright sunlight shone through the green leaves, he imagined himself climbing a tower. Just like in the songs, he was a daring knight and would storm the bad wizard’s evil tower to steal the potion that would wake the fair maiden from her magic sleep…

Farther and farther he climbed until he was finally there. Reaching out, he took the ripe red apple and savored the view from so high up. Lionsfort’s copper roofs shone brightly in the sun and the mountains rose majestically in the distance. After three years this picturesque sight was familiar to him; it was now as much his home as Winterfell had ever been.

“Bran! Come down!” It was a laughing whine, part jest but also part serious demand. It wouldn’t do to keep his princess waiting.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” He laughed and swiftly made his way down. “Here, my lady, for you!” He presented the apple to her and watched her delicate hands take it from him, brushing his in the process. A warm shiver ran down his spine and he smiled even wider at her.

“Thank you, my Lord Stark.” She gifted him with a smile and he knew once more that there was no lady as beautiful as Joanna Lannister in all the North — nay, in all of Westeros! Her hair was like spun gold, glittering in the sun like precious metal. Her eyes were the greenest he had ever seen, akin to the summer grasses on the fields, and her manners the gentlest and most becoming of a lady.

He would one day marry her. That he knew as surely as he knew he was the son of Eddard Stark.

He would be the best squire her father ever had and then, when he was deemed ready, he would become a knight. He would gain her favor and crown her his Queen of Love and Beauty and then…then he would ask her to be his forever. Their love would be sung of by bards all across the land…

“Bran? Bran!” He blinked.

“What?”

“Are you daydreaming again?” She asked with a smile and he scratched the back of his head, knowing that he was blushing furiously, damn it!

“N-no…ah…”

“Well, I would like for my knight to accompany me on a walk then.”

Obligingly, he offered her his arm and they began walking. The streets were as full as they always were. Lionsfort was so vibrant and lively compared to Winterfell. Even now, he remembered the tall cold grey walls and the eerie silence of the Godswood. Though Winterfell was the center of the North, the seat of his House, it was so solemn and comparably empty to here…

“You got a letter from your brother Jon, did you not?” Joanna asked. It was always thus on their walks. She never could endure silence very well, but she took care to only talk about topics he was interested in. And this was certainly a topic he was more than eager to discuss. Jon…Jon was living his dream, would become a knight one day. It wasn’t apprenticeship to the White Lion himself, but the Bluecloaks were still very respectable indeed.

“Yes, he’s been finally sent north against the Wildlings. I think he’s glad to be away from that Ramsay Snow character.”

Joanna nodded in understanding.

“I’ve heard about him from some of the merchants from the east. The Bastard of Bolton they call him and they say that Lord Bolton wants him to become the captain of the Bluecloaks in his lands.”

“That’s a fine thing for him, then.”

“Your father promised Jon a lordship; that’s quite a bit more.”

“Well, Jon’s a Stark bastard — and he’s the best anyway.” Which was true enough. None of his other siblings were as great as Jon. His brother was off fighting Wildlings and defending the North, earning a name and glory. And even then he still had the time to write Bran and give him advice. The flower thing certainly helped to impress Joanna…

“And you…what did your father tell you about your lordship? You wanted to ask him, did you not?”

“Aye,” he nodded, “I asked and he said that if I wanted to, I might like a keep at the mouth of the Grey River on the Stony Shore.”

“A port town…that would suit you well, I think.”

“There’s some half-standing ruins from one of House Fisher’s keeps. Nobody’s had enough coin to rebuild it since they died out,” he elaborated. A port city would certainly be something. The closest port city to the South on the western coast. Would many merchants come there? Would it be as colorful and vibrant as here or as Deepwood Motte? Would Joanna like it?

Bran glanced at her and decided that, yes, she would. She had been hinting and talking a lot about the future — a future that they would experience together. But…would he have time to be a knight if he was a lord of a keep? Lords had lots to do, after all, and he wanted to win tourneys and be hailed as the greatest knight ever. Building up the keep would take time, though. Perhaps…perhaps he could do it like Jon: let Father handle the keep for a bit and do knightly things in the meantime.

“Good afternoon,” a voice greeted and they turned to see Rowyn coming from the direction of the godswood. Bran stiffened and tried not to scowl, but he knew that she had seen his reaction for a slight smirk had appeared on her face. How the two sisters could be so different — as different as night and day, truly — Bran would never know. While Joanna was everything a maiden and lady should be, Rowyn took entirely after her mother. She had her mother’s coloring but her father’s height and, to Bran’s dismay, prowess in battle. No half-Mormont girl would ever be forbidden from learning how to fight — that was made clear enough to him when he first complained about it — but did she have to be so damnably good at it?

Still clad in her training leathers, she raised an eyebrow at him, but didn’t say anything about the spar this morning, where she had beaten him soundly. Instead, she nodded at her sister.

“Do you two want to come listen to Old Oswin tell stories? He’s by the bench near the river.”

“No,” Bran answered shortly.

“No, thank you, sister,” Joanna said more politely.

Rowyn just shrugged and left with a wave.

“I don’t understand how your sister can like those old stories so much.” Old Oswin was an old Mountain clansman and was always telling the children — or anyone who would listen — about the Others and other such grim tales of the North. And Rowyn was obsessed with them; as obsessed as she was with learning to fight and praying in the Godswood.

“They frighten me,” admitted Joanna and he squeezed her hand lightly in reassurance.

“They shouldn’t,” he smiled at her. “The Others and all that stuff…that’s old superstition. Nothing about it is true anymore. The Others were defeated thousands of years ago and the old folk use it to frighten children into obeying their elders. Nothing bad will happen, Joanna.”

“You’re…you are right. Of course, you are right.” But she didn’t sound all that reassured to him. Bran hated it and he hated Old Oswin — and Rowyn — for upsetting her. The old man always warned him to listen to “the history and the wisdom of the North” and then tried to frighten him with tales of monsters and ice demons. As if Bran was a little babe who’d believe everything people would tell him.

“Come, let’s go home. My mother sent me a book with Southron stories about knights and princesses for my last nameday. You’ll like it better.”

Joanna readily agreed and Bran banished the echoes of those old Northern stories from his mind. After hearing them he always got so many frightening, horrible nightmares that left him cold after waking and made him jump at every shadow.

No, knights, princesses and glory were definitely the better things to think about.

He would not let old biddies and nightmarish tales frighten him away from his future.


	19. Chapter 19

#  Jon IV 

This, Jon thought, was surely the True North.

The wind coming from the Bay of Seals was freezing, reaching through the thick cloaks and seeping into both body and blood. And, though it was summer, the snow lay thick on the ground, nestled between the wild hills and ancient pines and oaks that were so common in the Umber lands.

Next to him Smalljon Umber crouched down. Not that it helped him be inconspicuous. The Wintersworn knight was larger than life no matter what he did. Right now, he resembled a giant trying to make himself small.

“Why did they send you on a covert mission again, Smalljon?” Jon muttered, grip on his sword tightening. Since his father had gifted him the blade, he had not been apart from it. Indeed, now it felt more like an extension of his arm than an instrument of death. He had been such a fool when he had first gone to join the Bluecloaks. He had thought it would all be glory and honor and duty…

“Because no one’s better at bashing heads in than I am, Wolf,” Smalljon grinned and then motioned to a hill in front of them. “There they are, right on time.”

“Too damn late,” Jon growled. “We’ve been freezing our asses off all morning.”

“Just what you need for toughening up, Southlander.” And then there was no more time for jokes. Silence fell over the group of Bluecloaks, their training asserting itself as they crept forward slowly. Their blue cloaks, usually so vibrant in color, had been turned inside-out, letting the white side of them hide the group in the snow.

Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was luck; Jon couldn’t tell afterwards, but one of the Wildlings gave a shout of alarm and then what had been hoped to be an ambush became an open battle.

The Wildlings shouted cries of battle, fearlessly storming at the Bluecloaks in their patchwork armor and lower quality weapons.

Jon felt his heartbeat speed up and brandished his sword, adding his own voice to those of his brethren.

“The North!”

Purpose filled his soul as he ran next to his captain, the snow beneath their feet whirling upwards in a fine white mist. Smalljon let out a barking laugh as they smashed into the Wildlings, the Umber captain’s shield bashing in a Wildling woman’s head.

Then, there was no time to think, only to act as his training had beaten into him during painful hours of drills and spars.

Jon parried a sword and danced out of the way, driving his own blade into a body due to his greater reach. He had long since stopped flinching when taking a life. He had come to the Bluecloaks for honor and glory and duty; he had found death and blood instead. This was no battlefield from the songs. There was no honor found here, in the death of women and men. The Wildlings would take no prisoners, would not surrender until all their blood had seeped into the snowy ground, bathing it red.

Jon ducked his head, the arrow whistling past him and thudding into Smalljon’s shield.

“Take out the archers!” Smalljon roared and Jon saw Alysanne Rivers and Torun Stone change direction immediately.

“Press them! Press them!”

With renewed energy they did, their line pushing the Wildlings further and further back.

“Encircle them! Kill those bastards!”

Blood splattered on his armor and cloak, the stink of gutted bodies and desperation clinging to him like a shadow. Slowly but surely, the Bluecloaks were winning.

A dark roar of anger shook the hills. One of the Wildlings — a giant, for he was taller and broader even than Smalljon — was rushing at them, swinging twin stone axes in ferocious motions. Smalljon moved forward into the Wildling’s path and Jon followed suit. Like a battering ram, the giant hit Smalljon’s shield, the force of the blow so strong that Smalljon’s hand quivered and the man stumbled back. And Jon knew at once what would happen.

With speed he didn’t know he possessed, Jon dashed in front of the mortal blow, diverting it with his sword. It vibrated, the strength of the giant Wildling pushing it out of his hand. Instinctively, his other hand moved to the dagger at his side. He ducked beneath another axe swing, right foot pushing the stumbling Smalljon even further back, and then moved in closer. There was no honor in his actions as he pushed the dagger right into the man’s throat. Blood spurted into his face and his enemy’s dead body fell upon him, pulling him down too until he could not move under the weight. The dark eyes that had stared at him in crazed bloodlust were hollow now, the light of life having left them. The man did not have time to move backwards, did not have time to counteract the swift dagger with his slower axes. In honorable combat this man would have killed him — Jon was sure of that.

War was not honorable.

He still felt slight remorse at the way he’d killed the Wildling. This had been an assassin’s blade, the methods of a thief and rogue, not those of a knight. But Jon was alive and he valued his own life higher than any Wildling’s. Perhaps that was enough.

Around him the sounds of battle abated. Finally, when his limbs were numb and he was shivering from the cold, someone heaved the body off of him.

The smiling face of Smalljon — bright, bloody but reasonably unhurt — appeared above.

“Gods damn, man! What a kill!”

Helping hands supported him as he raised himself up.

“He was a tough bugger,” Jon nodded, then asked, “Did we win?”

“Did we win? Did we win?! Ha!” Smalljon clapped him on the shoulder so forcefully that he thought he would fall again. “Aye, naturally we did! And you! You, Jon Snow, did kill the best of them! I recognize this damn son of a bitch. That’s Toregg the Tall, son of Tormund Giantsbane and a pain in the ass for us Umbers for who knows how long! Never could get him, but you…you did!”

Smalljon laughed and Jon felt himself joining in, even though a bit more hesitantly. The tension was beginning to leave him.

“Ey! Is every one of those buggers dead?” Smalljon yelled, then got an affirmative in the way of shouts. “Then get over here! There’s one thing left to do!”

The Bluecloaks assembled. They were two short, Jon noticed. Only two dead men — it was a good price to pay for killing this band of Wildlings. They had terrorized the countryside for a long time now and only luck and a strategic mind had helped stop them here. Thank the Gods they did not have the same quality equipment as Jon’s fellow Northmen did.

Smalljon turned to the Bluecloaks, his hand tightening on Jon’s shoulder and holding him in place.

“Hear me, men!”

“…And woman!” quipped Alysanne from the side.

“And woman!” Smalljon nodded at her with a grin. “Hear me! This man today saved my life. He showed courage and honor in taking down this pillaging bastard,” he kicked the dead Toregg once, “and did so with the swiftness and deadly prowess of a wolf! I say, there is no one better to have at my back or at my side! Jon Snow — kneel!”

Swallowing, Jon lowered himself onto one knee into the bloody snow. Was this truly happening? Smalljon’s bloodstained blade hovered over one of his shoulders.

“Jon Snow, you’re one of the most deadly and deserving bastards I’ve ever met,” Smalljon smirked and Jon felt no animosity at the, perhaps, unintended jape, “and I think it’s high time you join the ranks of us other deadly sons of bitches. Jon, repeat after me: The Old Gods be my witnesses…”

“The Old Gods be my witnesses…”

And so he repeated the words, the oath that would now bound him forevermore. As he spoke, he felt eyes on him, like the whole world was watching and not just his handful of comrades and the lost souls of the Wildlings.

“Winter comes and I shall meet it without fear. I will protect the North and all its peoples against any dangers they might face. In my veins flows ice as I meet the North’s enemies in battle and my blade shall not rest until they lie dying at my feet. I will bring justice to the damned and solace to the innocent. I pledge today and for all days to come to adhere to the codex of the Wintersworn, until the last of winter’s winds die down and I join my father’s fathers in eternal peace.”

The sword tapped him on the other shoulder, its weight heavy and real.

“Rise, Ser Jon, a knight of the Wintersworn. Rise, my brother.”

And the strength to rise to his feet came surprisingly swiftly. He took a deep breath and the icy cold of the winds did not bother him, nor did the tiredness he had felt just minutes ago. Jon felt reborn, finally arrived at his goal.

“And now a lady’s kiss to welcome the new Wintersworn into our midst. Convenient, that, that we have a woman right here.”

Alysanne gave Jon a once-over, then snorted.

“No way, Smalljon! He’s covered in blood from head to toe.”

Jon glanced down. She was right.

“That’s no problem,” Smalljon said and before Jon could do anything, he had a handful of snow in his face. Spluttering, he glared at the Umber even as everyone around him laughed.

“Don’t look at me like that! I fixed the problem, didn’t I?”

Alysanne sighed, but her eyes were soft as she moved up to him and her hands warm as she cupped his face.

“Congratulations,” she whispered and then her lips were on his and he was quite certain that this wasn’t the kiss Smalljon meant it to be and her lips were so warm and her tongue…oh…her tongue…

He groaned into it, felt her smile against him and opened his eyes as she leaned back, ignoring the whistles as best he could. He quirked a smile himself, tongue flickering out and catching the last of her taste on his lips.

“Well,” he said gutturally, then coughed and continued in a more normal voice, “this was certainly a far better beginning than I expected.”

“So, future lord of the High Lakes, have you thought of a name yet?”

Jon laughed.

“You say that as if I were expecting this development, my friend.”

“We’ve all known that you would become a Wintersworn sooner or later, Jon,” Josua, one of the Dawnguard, said. “It isn’t like this is unexpected. You must have thought of a name.”

“Perhaps something with Stark in it?” Smalljon suggested. “It certainly is traditional enough. The Karstarks did it.”

“And what, call myself Redstark or Greenstark or another-color-Stark?”

“Why not Starkstark?”

Jon threw Alysanne a withering glare.

“Very funny.”

“I thought so too,” she grinned.

“No…I need…something that sounds…right.”

“Well, to me you will always be Jon Bloodwolf the True.” Smalljon pulled him to his side in a half-embrace of brotherhood. “For you bathed in the blood of our enemies to protect your pack. No truer man there could be.” He then let him go and clapped once. “Now, enough with ceremonies! We need to pack and clean up before making for Last Hearth. There’s a storm coming, I can feel it, and we don’t want to be outside when it hits.”

As the others began to disperse, Smalljon gave Jon a last grin.

“And you, my friend, should think of a name for when we get there, because, trust me, you will be the guest of honor tonight!”

And true to Smalljon’s word, the group returned that evening to Last Hearth as heroes. Warmth, friendship and welcome flowed as easily in Lord Umber’s hall as the wine and mead. Great boars, well-prepared and seasoned, had found their way to the tables and Jon…well, Jon had finally found a name.

“A toast,” Greatjon Umber roared above the drunken voices of his men, “a toast to the man who saved my heir’s life! As fierce as a wolf with his teeth at the enemy’s throat, he was! A toast to Ser Jon Highwind! May he be always as swift as the wind he’s named for and reach the highest of heights!”

The crowd cried in approval and Jon grinned as he downed his own goblet of wine.

He had reached for that unreachable goal — a name, recognition, approval — and he had earned it with blood, sweat and tears.

He had proved himself at last.


	20. Chapter 20

#  Eddard III 

#  __

_…And I have been given Robert’s agreement that Lyan’s fostering has come to a close. He has done much to strengthen the connection between the North and House Baratheon, inspiring respect and admiration amongst the court. He will return to the North at your convenience. I imagine that you will want to make your own arrangements for his travel._

_Lyan has grown into a good man — a man both admired for his talent at arms and his courteous manners. I am glad to know him._

_With deep regards,_

_Jon Arryn_

Ned’s heart clenched with joy as he read the words again and a smile broke out on his face. Finally. Finally. Lyan was coming home. He had almost given up hope that Robert would let him go. A good man, Jon had called him. A man. Lyan was coming back home fully grown. Ned’s decision had cost his brother and his brother’s family the ability to watch Lyan grow from a young boy into a man; to see his first victory during a spar, his first blush at a girl’s smile or the first stubble growing on his chin. Was this sacrifice worth it? Worth the years of peace and preparation they had gained?

Ned tried to imagine what his refusal then would have brought to the North: Robert calling the banners; everyone apart from Dorne and perhaps the Riverlands answering the call; the Wildlings penetrating deeper and deeper into the North as the Northmen tried to defend their lands; Jon perhaps growing up as a king, always in danger of assassinations; thousands of Northmen dying as they were attacked from all sides…

No, he had to believe that his choice had been the correct one. Hindsight might prove him wrong in the future, but for now the North was prosperous and Lyan was coming home. Let that be enough.

“Let that be enough,” he whispered out loud and relaxed.

“What will be enough?” Robb asked as he came through the door. In his hand was a stack of papers and Ned frowned.

“Are you working? Today?”

“I just want to be prepared.” His son shrugged, setting the papers down on Ned’s table. “And I don’t want the trade agreement I worked so hard on to fail if those stubborn lords go at each other’s throat later.”

Ned nodded in approval, watching his heir sit down across from him. Robb had grown up so much from the little eager boy who sometimes got jealous but was always bright and charming. Time went by far too fast. His little boy was a boy no longer. Here sat a man, a well-trimmed chinstrap beard, now common fashion in the North, and chin-length hair in his mother’s red-brown color. An easy, charming smile lit up his face as often as it grew solemn and thoughtful when Robb worked on yet another problem that came his way as Ned’s heir. Still, as admirable as the boy’s work ethic was, this was not the day for it.

“No more work today, Robb, promise me,” he said sternly, watching his son frown and then nod in obedience.

“Alright, alright…” He didn’t sound convinced.

“You have the right to enjoy this day fully. It is not every day that a man gets married and I would hope that you will be happy in your marriage. It is better to start such an endeavor not overworked and be singularly focused on your betrothed, soon-to-be wife.”

“You are right, of course, Father,” sighed Robb, then smiled ruefully, “though Wynafryd does know of my tendencies — and she agreed to marry me still.”

“A smart woman and no doubt a forgiving one. It is good that you are so comfortable with her already; it will make you happier in the future.”

Robb eyed him for a moment and Ned wondered what he saw.

“I hope I will be as happy as you are with Mother,” Robb said quietly, then hesitated. It did not matter. Ned knew well what he wanted to know.

“Your mother and I, we did not marry under the best circumstances. Your Grandfather Hoster hesitated to join the Rebellion and we needed troops. I didn’t even see your mother once before the wedding, though I heard Brandon mention her before. You, on the other hand, have known Wynafryd for years and know what she likes, know her temper and her thoughts. It is quite a different situation, Robb, but different in a good way. You should hopefully not have any of the same problems.”

“You didn’t love Mother then.”

Ned sipped his wine, then snorted.

“Love? How could I? I was terrified. My father and brother were dead, I was suddenly the Lord of Winterfell and old Mad Aerys wanted my head on a platter — or perhaps just burned to a crisp. And then there was your mother: beautiful, young and definitely not expecting to marry the younger, less handsome brother. We hadn’t even talked before we spoke our vows. But later, after the war, yes, we became friends and then we fell in love. It wasn’t easy by any means. There were barriers between us…”

“Jon.” There was no malice when Robb spoke the name nor the overwhelming warmth that had governed Ned’s own relationship with his siblings, but Ned detected a hint of uncertainty. Robb had gotten over that issue years ago, Ned knew, but sometimes…

“Yes, Jon,” he confirmed. “Your mother didn’t take his presence well.”

“Nor would Wynafryd have taken it well in Mother’s place.”

“Nor do you bring any such issues into your marriage, Robb,” countered Ned, filling his son’s cup with wine.

“Did you love her? Jon’s mother?”

Lyanna had been a fool, going with Rhaegar as she had, giving the final push for the whole of Westeros to go to hell. Did her youth excuse her then? Could the deaths be excused? At least Father and Brandon might not have died the way they did. But that was hindsight too. In the end, all that mattered was that Ned had loved his sister — despite her foolishness, impulsivity and wildness.

“Yes, I did love her,” but before Robb could protest, could say anything, he continued, “but not like I love your mother. I did never love any woman like I love your mother, trust me. But I did promise Jon’s mother to take care of him for she could not do it herself.”

“And that’s why you raised him the way you did.”

“To be a good man?” And Jon was a good man — courageous, level-headed and loyal. “I gave him the tools to achieve something for himself and he used those tools to do so. Once you become the Lord of Winterfell, you will have Jon Highwind at your side, guarding your back. You will have no better friends in this world than family who love you. You, Robb, have been my heir from the first moment you drew breath. You have learned whatever I have set before you and more. You have have gotten to know the Northern lords, ate with them, fought alongside them and negotiated when there were problems between them. All of that you did admirably and well. The lords respect you. I am proud of you, Robb,” he put a hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed, “and you should never doubt your place in life. You have no reason to.”

“I…I know,” Robb sighed. “I know, Father. It is…not easy to have a brother who’s better than you at some things — who fights better, rides better…”

“I know. Brandon was always better at the sword than I was. Hell, Lyanna was both good at wielding a sword and the best rider of all of us!”

“But you never were the heir, Father. It’s different, being heir. I always had the feeling that I had to be better than everybody at everything —“

“— being able to fight well does not make one a good lord —“

“— and Jon’s not a bad lord, Father. I’ve always felt the pressure to be the best. Perhaps, without Jon, I wouldn’t have tried so hard and maybe…maybe I wouldn’t even have met Wynafryd — and that…I do not want to contemplate the possibility.”

“Then you might have learned an important lesson earlier than most, Robb.” Ned swirled the wine in his cup, watching as the rich red color shone in the sunshine. “Most learn it too late, if they learn it at all. Do not think of what-ifs, but appreciate the good things that you have right now. If I had continued to wonder what life would have been like had my brother or father lived, I would have lived life chasing a dream and not seen the good I had left with your mother or my family.”

“It sounds like you want me to forget the past…”

“Only to not yourself be ruled by it. Forgetting the past is foolish, Robb, and dangerous too. Men are strange creatures — they never forget a slight and oftentimes remember it at the most inopportune time. Most are also slow to forgive, if they ever do.”

Like Robert. If he hadn’t been so set on vengeance all those years ago, things might have occurred differently. But as it was, Ned had never been able to put his friend before his nephew.

“But let us not speak of such things this joyful day.”

“Agreed,” Robb nodded, though his eyes remained thoughtful. Then he motioned to Jon Arryn’s letter. “Good news? I think I saw you smiling when I came in.”

“Good news, indeed. Your cousin Lyan is finally coming home.”

“Truly?” Robb brightened. “I admit I don’t remember him that well, but I feel as if I already know him from his letters. It will be good to meet him in person again. By the way, is Jon already here? His raven said that he would be here this morning and High Lakes Keep isn’t that far away; he should be here. Do you think something happened?”

Gods, Ned hoped not. The road from the High Lakes wasn’t the best, but it had been built up enough in the last few years to be sturdy and well-patrolled.

“No doubt Arya would have made it known loudly and clearly.” Jon was her favorite brother, after all.

“No doubt.”

“Come, let us go. We have just a few hours until the wedding and need to entertain our guests. Jon will be here; he would not miss your wedding for the world.”

As it was, the whole Northern world — and even some beyond it — seemed to be gathered at Winterfell. The great lords had either come themselves or sent worthy representatives to the wedding of the Stark heir. Business partners from Essos and some of the other Westerosi kingdoms were here too, mingling. 

And Winterfell had gone all out with the preparations, all to show their pride in its heir and the power of the North. The broken tower of his childhood had been rebuilt years ago and the First Keep had been in use so long that many of his children didn’t remember it any other way. Colorful banners hung from the walls and lords and ladies clad in their house colors walked the halls. Tables were laden with food, from Northern delicacies to Essosi exotics. The Northern capital — prosperity and peace had made Winterfell that even more than before. Was this how it had been before the Dragons had come to Westeros? Was this how it would be from now on? Ned was well-aware that many Northmen only paid lip-service to the South, taking pride in their heritage more than being a subject under King Robert’s rule.

Was that the North his son would one day inherit?

Ned watched with pride as Robb with his betrothed on the arm navigated through the dangerous waters of Northern politics. Wynafryd had her brown hair done in a long Northern braid, her dress in the colors of House Manderly, bringing out her dark eyes very well. She was a pretty girl — not quite as striking as Catelyn all those years ago with her Tully coloring — but very nice nonetheless. It was not only her looks that had enraptured Robb, Ned knew, but Wynafryd’s mind. How many times had he listened to his son extol the virtues of the Manderly woman? Her keen mind and gracious manners? Wynafryd had her grandfather’s intellect. Indeed, Ned should call himself lucky that his son fell in love with such a suitable match.

“How much he has grown,” mused his wife, coming up beside him. She was as beautiful now as she had been on their own wedding day.

“How much they have all grown.”

There was no greater truth. His children had all grown so much, some already adults or close to adulthood. 

There Arya was surrounded by Bluecloaks, noble sons who had joined the service out of good old Northern loyalty. Many of them, clearly, were already half in love with her. Even Eddard Karstark, a mountain of a man with long hair and a full beard, seemed enamored. His daughter was laughing fiercely, at five-and-ten looking so much like her departed aunt that it sometimes frightened him. He could only hope that no similar fate awaited her. But, then again, the North — the whole world — was different now than it had been then. Still, if and when she finally decided that marriage was for her, Ned would either have to beat the suitors off with Ice or she’d drag some lovesick boy to him and tell Ned that this one was her choice. Probably the latter, knowing Arya.

At least Sansa would not give him the same trouble. Hopefully. His eyes travelled to her, also in a gaggle of young noble sons, giving each a smile and making conversation. She had grown perhaps the most of his children, Lady Mya’s influence guiding her mind away from fairytales and songs to other, more worthy pursuits. The Order had done much to heal the sick and improve the North, and that had resonated with Sansa’s kind heart. For that alone, Ned would always be grateful to Lady Mya. That said, he knew that at eight-and-ten Sansa was thinking of the match that would be made for her, carefully evaluating her possible husbands as she traveled around with Robb or Ned himself.

Travelling…

“Has your father gotten better, love?”

“No,” Cat’s eyes darkened, “Edmure wrote that nothing is helping anymore. He’s not leaving his bed at all and very weak. I fear this is the end.”

He reached out, taking her hand in his and squeezing. There was a faint tremble on her skin, even as her face did not show her distress.

“Then you will go?”

“Yes, with the children.”

Ned frowned, a curious feeling of disquiet in his heart at the thought of any of his family going south. Now that Lyan was coming home…

“You are certain that they must come?”

“Ned…my father is dying. He’s never seen Arya or Sansa or Rickon…”

“You’re not taking Robb and Bran?”

Cat sighed.

“You need Robb here and I know that Bran is completely absorbed in his squiring,” she nodded towards their second son, standing proudly next to Ser Jaime, “but Arya and Rickon won’t mind a bit of an adventure. Our boy’s at an age where he’d enjoy such a thing and Arya is, well, Arya. As for Sansa…there will be sons of Riverlander nobles in Riverrun. Edmure wrote that many are paying my father their last respects.”

“I’m not sure if I want any of our children anywhere south of the Neck, Cat, neither temporarily or, Gods forbid, permanently.”

“Listen to him, Cat,” Benjen walked up, grimly taking a sip of his wine, “for no Stark should be anywhere in the South at all.”

“And soon that will be, indeed, the truth.”

“Ned?”

“Brother?”

He turned to Benjen and smiled.

“A letter arrived from Jon Arryn today. Lyan is coming home; Robert agreed.”

Benjen’s eyes started to water and he swallowed heavily. The hand gripping the cup of wine trembled and Ned stepped closer to him, putting a steadying hand over his brother’s shoulder.

“He’s…he’s…”

“…He’s coming home, Ben. He’s coming home.”

“I will go and get him. I will travel to King’s Landing and get my son,” Benjen said, voice heavy with emotions.

“Then you can accompany the children and me to Riverrun.”

“Yes, yes. I will do that, Cat.”

“Benjen,” Ned interjected, “do you really think it’s a good idea to —“

“I will take my boy home, Ned,” Benjen said firmly, even harshly and Ned almost flinched at the sudden hardness in his brother’s eyes. No, he wasn’t quite forgiven, even if he’d never had any other true choice. Such was the fate of being Winterfell’s lord. Was it his right to stop Benjen from going? His brother would listen, if he’d ordered him, but would he forgive him afterwards? Or would there be a rift, unsurmountable, wide and gaping, between them?

“Just…be careful, Ben. That city…it is no good.” And that warning would have to be enough.

“You should go tell your family, Ben.”

As he watched his brother walk away, Ned thought that the sun’s rays were suddenly not as warm anymore. He shook his head, smiled at his wife and offered her his hand.

“Shall we?”

She nodded and for the rest of the morning they mingled amongst their lords and guests.

The sun was high in the sky when there was a commotion at the South Gate.

“Jon’s here!” Arya called to him, already running fast to greet her brother. How did she know? Ned could never guess. His youngest daughter seemed to have eyes in the back of her head, for she never seemed to be wrong. And, indeed, Jon had finally arrived, sitting astride his black horse and with an entourage of men-at-arms in his service at each side.

Arya flung herself into his arms as soon as his feet touched ground and he twirled her around, laughing.

“Where have you been, brother?” Robb asked as he pulled Jon into a half-embrace, clasping his arm in a warrior’s grip.

“We were worried, Jon,” Ned agreed, joining the rest of his family as they greeted their newly arrived member.

“Forgive me. I did not want to arrive late.” Then Jon grinned at Robb. “But, then again, I just had to get a very special gift for you, brother.”

He walked over to his horse, pulled open the saddlebags and Ned couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Small heads poked out of them, furry, with long muzzles and pointed ears. Wolves, but not normal ones.

“Dire wolves,” Ned whispered. Gasps went around the crowd.

“I found them in the Wolfswood on my way here. Their mother was as large as a pony, but died from a stag attack. She killed the stag, but obviously succumbed to her wounds, leaving these little ones alone. I could not leave them there, obviously.”

“Dire wolves are not dogs, Jon,” Cat admonished him quietly.

“No, they are not, but they are sigils of our Houses. Eight pups — eight sons and daughters of Stark blood in this generation. Surely this is a sign from the Gods, of the North’s continued good fortune, that I have found them on Robb’s wedding day.” 

Jon gently set each of the pups on the ground and everyone watched them move closer to a Stark youth, though not having the strength yet to get there all the way, they faltered half-way. As if pulled by an invisible string all of the young Starks, from Ned’s own to Benjen’s Elias, walked forward, picking a pup up. An albino, crimson eyes open and watchful, stayed at Jon’s side. Only a single one was left, his little head turning from one side to the other, searching. And Ned knew that this one, colored in a sandy beige, was Lyan’s.

He exchanged a look with Benjen and his brother kneeled and picked the little wolf up in his son’s stead.

As the the crowd of nobles spoke of good fortune and divine favor, Ned could only hope that this was indeed a sign of a good future.

Only time would tell.


	21. Chapter 21

#  Benjen II 

The moment he stepped onto the wooden floors of the “Stalwart Wolf”, a feeling of disquiet blossomed inside his chest. He had not often left the comforting cradle of the North behind. There had been the journeys to Dorne to meet with Obara’s family, but Dorne was the sun to the North’s moon; fundamentally different but also very much the same in some aspects, and not at all like the rest of Westeros.

And then there had been that fateful tourney at Harrenhal…oh, how he hated being reminded of it! Everything had taken its course after that. Now, going to the place that had devoured both his father and brother, the apprehension he had begun to feel since deciding to collect Lyan was getting stronger and stronger.

“Don’t look so grim, Uncle Ben!” Arya laughed, clapping him on the shoulder before scurrying up one of the ship’s masts with the grace of a cat, head turned back to him briefly as she said, “We’re getting Lyan back! That’s a time for happiness!”

Benjen shook his head. Arya…Arya was just too much like his dead sister, but perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was just thinking too much, letting his doubts fester in his heart and pollute his thoughts.

And so his journey began. The prosperous port of Deepwood Harbor shrunk further and further the farther the “Stalwart Wolf” and her escorts sailed. Along the coast they went, around Sea Dragon Point, Dragon’s Haven’s lighthouse a shining beacon in those treacherous waters and then farther down the coast still. The Stony Shore glittered grey in the sunshine, the pebbles on the beaches worn smooth by the Sunset Sea. Sometimes, they passed fishing villages, their inhabitants waving and cheering when they saw the dire wolf flying high on the ships. But it was only when they reached the Grey River that they saw major construction again. Ned was building up a port here for Bran, though Benjen doubted how much the would-be-knight was interested in governing such a place by the sea. There would not be much glory here or tourneys; something his nephew was more than interested in. Perhaps another Stark would be more suited to it.

Like Rickon.

Rickon had taken to the sea like a fish to water, pestering the captain incessantly about navigation, sea pirates and monsters, and the man was indulging him, eager to share his experiences and adventures, especially with a son of Ned Stark. A second Brandon the Shipwright? Or Brandon the Burner? The sea would certainly suit the young wild Stark and Shaggydog did not seem at all unhappy at being on a ship. Maybe he should mention it to Ned when he got back.

All of his family seemed to be in good spirits, now that he thought about it. Arya and Rickon were enchanted with the adventure of it all and Sansa, though calmer in her enthusiasm, smiled often and genuinely. Only Catelyn shared the dark thoughts that plagued him from time to time and hers were mostly focused on her father’s condition. While he liked staring at the passing landscape from the deck of the ship, she had spent most of the journey in the cabin, embroidering. Sometimes Sansa joined her, when she was not charming the crew, that is.

Benjen rather doubted that Sansa would find a noble son she would take a fancy to in the South. For all she did have her mother’s looks, the girl was Northern through and through. And if what he’d seen of her interactions with young Jojen Reed continued…no noble lady, no matter how interested in the Order, did speak so passionately and so often of the medicines found in the swamps of the Neck. Had Ned seen it already? The first daughter of the Lord of Winterfell would be a grand prize; some would say too grand for a Reed.

Days went by in such a fashion; the children had enough to do on the ship and he turned to planning the trip towards King’s Landing, wondering what route would be best, would be fastest. Lyan had waited far too long to come home; he would not let his boy wait any longer.

At least the initial voyage proved to be swift. Fair winds rushed into the sails and the captain insisted that the Gods were with them, for there had been no storms at all and only good weather. The Northern ships sailed along the Flint Cliffs, into the Cape of Eagles and, finally, into Ironman’s Bay and Seagard.

The seat of House Mallister was truly magnificent. Though he had always thought that Deepwood Harbor was an awesome sight, in Seagard one could feel the age and see the fortifications that looked like they would withstand another few hundred years at least. The North, for all its recent innovations and prosperity, was still a babe compared to established cities in the South. Only time would tell if their own new cities would withstand the tests of time.

The Mallisters greeted them with all the ceremony due to members of House Stark and the daughter of their own Lord Paramount.

“I will accompany you to Riverrun, my lady, my lord,” Patrek Mallister, Lord Jason Mallister’s heir, told them. “Edmure bid me to make sure your travels would be safe and swift.”

“And would they not be so otherwise?”

The Mallister hesitated.

“It is…not that the Riverlands are unsafe. The realm is at peace, after all, but we have gained more and more bandits in recent years who rob unaware travelers. I doubt that any of them would be fool enough to attack such a strong and well-armed force as yours, but it is better to be sure than count on some fool’s wisdom.”

It was well-reasoned and so their company gained another dozen of men. Now again on solid ground, they rode on, following some local roads east, but not entering Hag’s Mire and its bogs and bad roads.

“It would take us much too long then to arrive,” Patrek Mallister told them and Catelyn agreed.

Instead they headed to the western shore of the Green Fork belonging to House Mallister. In a tiny village, they took some of the small boats so characteristic of the Riverlands and sailed southeast. Lovely small villages dotted the hills and valleys along the river, and holdfasts ranging from modest ones to impressive castles rose on high vantage points, towering over all. To the east, they sometimes could see the mountains of the Vale in the distance, when they were not hidden behind the green woodlands of the Riverlands. All of it reminded Benjen of a tranquil and beautiful painting; a strange thought, as history had always shown that the Riverlands were the first to bleed in any conflict. But then again, perhaps not strange at all, for when peace reigned, there was bounty aplenty in these rich and fertile lands. The winter frost did not reach here as it did at home. It gave the impression of a kingdom of eternal spring.

Caught up in the serenity of it all, Benjen for the first time wondered with a man’s eyes and mind how a daughter of such lands like Catelyn had managed to adjust so well to the rougher and more unforgiving North. It must not have been easy.

Their boats continued sliding through the waters before, finally, they stopped at Harroway and then took the River Road west until they arrived safely at Riverrun. It reflected the Riverlands well, Benjen thought. Sandstone walls rising from the water, not especially big but capable of seeing anyone approach for many leagues. Which was probably why Edmure was already in the courtyard, ready to greet them when they rode through the gates.

This was what Robb would most likely look after three decades, mused Benjen, then amended that Robb, for all his Tully looks, had much of the old Starks in him. This man, though his body spoke that he was a warrior, looked tired and grief-stricken.

“Cat!”

Brother and sister hugged each other.

“How is he, Edmure?”

The Tully heir grimaced, eyes glancing to the ground, and the solemn atmosphere calmed the children down enough to remember their manners. Even the dire wolves, which had only gained a curious look from the Riverlander, behaved themselves.

“Bad. Very bad, Cat. He is barely hanging onto life. You must see him as soon as you can.”

“And Lysa?”

This time, Edmure scowled and shook his head, eyes darkened with anger. Cat only nodded in sad understanding and Benjen wondered how broken that relationship now was. There had always been signs, rumors and comments, though he had never involved himself in that mess.

As the children and Cat were led to Hoster Tully’s chambers and he to his own rooms for the night — assuring his host, of course, that he would pay his own respects later — he decided that he would only stay two days at most. King’s Landing awaited him and the air around Riverrun was choked with both anticipation and the tired sadness that people felt when they awaited the inevitable. Waiting, Benjen knew, was the most agonizing part. How long had he waited while Ned had been fighting in the Rebellion? How long had he waited on any news of Lyanna? Being unable, powerless to do anything but wait — it was a horrible fate. Even here, he wanted no part in it. Not again.

Even considering the sad state of his father, Edmure Tully was a good host, who did not hesitate to put the best wines available on the table or the best foodstuffs the Riverlands could offer. Fresh fish and plenty of vegetables did much to make tiredness of travel fall off from his shoulders. A good man was Catelyn’s brother and Benjen took a quick liking to him.

Still, he followed his firm wish to not remain long and thus visited Hoster Tully, though he doubted that the man would remember his visit at all, so close to death as he was, and bid his brother’s family goodbye.

“Travel safely, Ben,” whispered Catelyn as she hugged him and the children gave their own well-wishes.

Together with his companions he rode out, following the River Road the way they had come and then turning south on the Kingsroad. Here, finally, there was more movement. From time to time they saw small folk traveling north and sometimes they noticed figures in the woods coming forward and then blending right back in. Bandits, no doubt, though smart enough not to attack the obviously dangerous men that were Benjen’s companions.

So far, all was well.

_______________________________________________________________________

They smelt King’s Landing before they saw it. The stench of thousands of people living together on such small room was almost overwhelming, especially to him, who was used to the cleaner air of the North. From poor to rich, servants to merchants and noble lords, the city bustled with life, its populace eking out a living however it could. When Benjen had first seen the folk who had come to the North from the South, he had not understood how and why they would abandon all they knew on the small chance that the North — a land he understood others saw as barbaric wilderness — would be better. But now…he, too, would no doubt have left if given the hope of something better, for this was surely a hive of scum and villainy, the bees flying and stinging those not their own all for the pleasure of the king who sat in the Red Keep. How had Lyan lived in this place for so many years? How had his young son — now not so young anymore — changed?

They rode through the streets, the small folk scurrying out of their way. There was a strange tension in the air, something that made Benjen uneasy. None of the familiarity of the North, nor even the serenity of the Riverlands greeted him here. Instead, it almost felt…malicious.

“Do you feel it?” he asked his men quietly and they nodded.

“Aye, like before a snowstorm or perhaps a Wildling attack.”

It didn’t make him feel better that it wasn’t just his imagination playing tricks on him. They began to ascend Aegon’s Hill and as they rode higher and higher, the stench lessened in intensity, the shacks and manors growing smaller until they were like toy houses and the people ants, insignificant and tiny from up here.

All toys for those residing above them, for the ones sitting on the throne that had doomed so many in the past.

Benjen glanced up.

The Red Keep was a massive monstrosity in pale red. Fire and Blood. A fitting place for a House that had built their power on these things. Now gone. Just as Brandon and Father were gone. He didn’t want to see the spot where they had died; he would no doubt have to.

Who would greet them? Lord Arryn? The King?

But none of them did. Instead, a young man — golden hair, green eyes and rather handsome — met them. He was tall and not yet two decades old, if Benjen had to guess, with the build of a warrior. Clad in a doublet of black and gold, he cut a rather striking figure. The only thing unusual in this royal vision was a curious necklace, chain made out of different metal links, and hung around his neck, with a large ruby ornately set in the middle. As the sun’s rays fell upon it, it shone a brilliant red.

It was clear who this was; he looked very much like a younger Jaime.

“Prince Joffrey,” they greeted and bowed.

The prince gave them a welcoming smile, opening his arms wide.

“Welcome! Welcome! Lord Benjen Stark — is it not? You look just like your son! It is my pleasure to welcome you to the Red Keep and offer you and your men all the hospitality of the capital. Come! You must be tired from your journey. My father is…indisposed right now, but he will surely see you soon. Lyan is out in the city, though I have no doubt that he will return as soon as he hears of your arrival.”

If Benjen had to describe the young prince, he could only have done so with the word “majestic”. There was just something glowing, something more about the young man that was bigger than just charm and manners. None of the rumors that had reached his ears seemed true and he detected no falsehood in the pleasure Prince Joffrey exhibited at meeting him.

It was evening when Benjen finally saw his son. Until then, it seemed that all colorful figures of the royal court had come to meet and greet him. Jon Arryn was exactly like Ned had described him, though he looked a bit tired and haggard. King Robert, though older, was a big man, with muscles like steel and a booming laugh, loving to talk about his campaign in the Vale that he had finished this year.

“Chased those buggers into their frozen mountain holes, I did! Ha,” he had laughed and Benjen had not mentioned that some of those buggers had found their way north to a new home. That Robert had also taken Lyan away from Benjen had been forgotten too, it seemed. He did not mention it to the King.

And then Lyan had come back — and Benjen did not see his little boy, but himself. At nine-and-ten this was a young Stark staring back at him. His boy had short hair in the Southern style that Benjen had seen from time to time during his journey and was clean-shaven. Those grey eyes were serious and solemn. Lyan didn’t seem surprised at his presence, but there was a tremor in his arms as they hugged each other — emotion that Lyan did not make known to the rest of the world. They spent dinner in a slow, grinding ritual of manners and politeness, Lyan becoming quiet, observing more than talking, fading into the background. And Benjen, taking his cue from his son, tried to do the same.

It was a strange dynamic, the royal family. Queen Cersei, Benjen knew, was still at Casterly Rock — exiled, for all intents and purposes; that was the unofficial word on the street, at least. King Robert and Prince Joffrey had the same royal countenance, but were not behaving like father and son — not like he did with Elias or Ned with his children. The prince was courteous, charming, taking care to never upset his father and, though there did not seem to be enmity between them, there did not seem to be any love there either. King Robert was more interested in talking about himself and his glorious campaign than anything else, and Prince Joffrey ignored the serving maid on his father’s knees most aptly. Princess Myrcella sat to the side, forgotten, daintily putting another grape into her mouth, eyes everywhere but on her family.

Lyan and he escaped afterwards to the Godswood. The moonlight was bright, giving enough illumination to step firmly and walk without stumbling. Lyan knew this place well, leading him deeper and deeper into the trees.

“Why did you come?” was the first question his son asked when they finally, blissfully, were alone.

It pierced him like a Dornish spear. Why? Why?!

“How could I not?! You are my son! You are finally, finally, coming back home. I could not stay away.”

Lyan grimaced, sighed and turned his head away for a moment, and Benjen wondered if living next to this screwed up version of a royal family had somehow twisted his son’s knowledge of what a family truly should be.

Closing his eyes, Lyan said, “I…I am sorry. You are right, of course, Father. I just…worry. King’s Landing…it is not a place I want any of those precious to me to experience.”

“And do you not think that I feel the same, son?”

Lyan nodded and they walked on, conversation turning to other, lighter things; all those things Benjen had not been able to experience with him — to see his son knighted, to see him spar, to be there to answer questions when first Lyan discovered some fascination with a young lady. His son did not seem to be angry at him for it, but Benjen still felt the need to apologize.

“I am sorry I wasn’t there for you…”

Lyan shook his head.

“How could you be? There was no other choice.”

“If I had told Ned —“

“— He still would have chosen the same; and chosen rightly. The North is more important than all of us. Is that not what it means to be a Stark, Father?” And Benjen could not refute that claim.

They stepped out onto the clearing where the heart tree stood, tall and proud. Its white bark shone in the moon’s rays and the red leaves were darker in the night.

A remnant of the North, miraculously grown so far from home.

The place where Lyan almost died.

“It does not reassure a father when his son almost dies so far from home, away from the protection he should enjoy.”

“I hardly need protection anymore.” The stubborn tilt of his head reminded Benjen of Obara.

“Call it a father’s prerogative, then, Lyan. From now on, I will always be there for you.”

Lyan’s eyes were terribly knowing as he leaned against the heart tree, silencing any of Benjen’s protests.

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep,” his son whispered.

“I won’t. I haven’t.” He let that certainty echo in the silence surrounding the heart tree, knowing that the Gods heard those words as truth.

Soon…soon there would be no Stark in King’s Landing any longer. Benjen couldn’t wait to return home again.

They walked back in silence.

____________________________________________________________________

But it seemed that a fast departure was out of question.

“Hah,” the King had snorted, banging his cup of wine onto the table, “sending Little Ned off without a proper feast?! Never!”

“Yes,” Prince Joffrey had agreed, “do stay for a proper feast. A Stark must be treated with all the courtesy due your House and House Baratheon would be remiss if we let you slip out of King’s Landing like beggars.”

There had been no good way to refuse such royal requests and so Benjen prepared himself to experience how Lyan had lived all these years in the Red Keep for a while longer. While this proper feast — an event that apparently every local lord had to be invited to — was being organized, he used the time to properly get to know his son.

Long walks and even longer conversations followed, mostly in the solitude of the Godswood.

“There is a tension in the city,” Benjen remarked on one of them, when they had exhausted most personal topics, “a strange anticipation that lies in the air. We’ve noticed as soon as we rode in.”

Lyan smirked bitterly.

“That would be Joffrey’s doing, no doubt.”

“Prince Joffrey? He seemed a courteous enough young man. A bit arrogant, perhaps, and with a strange sense of humor — but that is surely not unusual in a royal. Eccentricity has always been a right of kings — and if it goes no farther than that, the kingdom can count itself lucky.”

Mad Aerys’ eccentricity had turned to madness quick enough and the whole realm had bled for it. Robert, for all his lust for battle, was harmless compared to the Targaryen Fire and Blood.

“If it was only eccentricity. Don’t let his mummer’s farce blind you to his real nature, Father. Courtesy and a noble bearing hide only his deep fanatism. His faith in the Red God is unshaken — of that I have no doubt.”

“You are certain?” He raised an eyebrow. “Your grandfather has numerous friends in the Citadel who speak only well of Joffrey; that he is a man of the word, scholarly but not without talent for the arts of war or management.”

“I remember the vicious eyes that had stared at me as fire threatened to swallow me whole so many years ago,” Lyan mused, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly upwards. Benjen’s chest grew colder, mouth drying as his mind made the connection. Before he could ask, Lyan confirmed it. “Yes, Joffrey has the same eyes still.”

“By the Gods,” he hissed, grabbing his son by the shoulder and turning him around violently, “do you mean to tell me that you knew all these years who was responsible for the attempt on your life and you didn’t say anything?!”

Benjen felt himself trembling, whether in anger or fear he didn’t know.

“Say something and what?” Lyan snorted. “Let Uncle Ned raise the banners and march on King’s Landing? What good would that have done apart from bringing ruin to the North? The reasons then to not antagonize the Baratheons were still the same as when you sent me to foster here. No, had the truth been known, Uncle Ned would have had no other course of action open to him than to demand satisfaction. And King Robert? Whatever you might think of him, Father, he would never give up his family, his children to a fate that might have, in the kindest case, have been death or the Wall.”

So, what? Was Robert Baratheon a better father than he was? It was a repulsive notion.

“And so you forced me to give you up to the South instead,” he concluded bitterly.

“That is hardly a death sentence,” Lyan countered. “But let us not argue. I am quite certain that R’hllor is still in Joffrey’s heart.” Then he smirked again. “And bed. The golden prince is fucking his red priestess.”

“What.”

“You heard me.” Lyan shrugged. “He’s…affirming his faith quite often and with great enthusiasm with the one called Melisandre.”

“I dread asking you how you know this…You didn’t see this for yourself, I hope…”

“Naturally not. They would have recognized me.” 

Ah, of course, Benjen thought with savage sarcasm. What had his boy become?

They turned a corner and onto the path leading back to the keep proper. “But the Red God’s ceremonies are rather public, if you know where to go. Our man on the inside described them as…oh yes, ardent, I think the word was.”

“I see.”

“Father, I —“

“Forgive me from intruding, my lord, Ser Lyan.” Princess Myrcella had appeared from one of the other paths, golden hair shining brightly, green eyes kind and with a rather becoming blush as she glanced at his son.

They bowed, their conversation halted even as Benjen’s mind refused to not contemplate strange foreign sex rituals between royals and priestesses…

“You never intrude, Princess” Lyan waved away the apology smoothly.

“Out on a walk?”

“Yes, Lord Benjen,” she smiled at him. “The Godswood is just so soothing. I hope you will reserve a dance for me during your leaving feast, Ser Lyan?”

“Of course, Princess.”

Father and son watched her disappear into the Godswood. There, at least, was the single pleasant royal in the whole of the Red Keep.

“You have her favor. From a princess that is no small thing, especially when she is such a sweet young girl.”

“Just an infatuation on her side, Father,” Lyan denied, but there was a faint redness on his cheeks. Infatuation it might have been, but it was not entirely one-sided, Benjen thought. For all the crudeness his boy seemed capable of, there was still something of that small child he had known in Lyan Stark. And that was reassuring in a way nothing on this journey had been yet.

“Wonderful weather for a walk!” The scent of lilacs assaulted them and Benjen coughed, wondering on who now intruded upon their walk. This was almost as bad as the stench in the city; different, yes, but the sheer amount of perfume used perverted what should have been a pleasant fragrance into something overwhelming and repugnant.

A lady of bad taste, surely. That was the thought in Benjen’s mind, but as he turned he was confronted with a…something in pink velvet. A lot of pink. He blinked. Either this was one ugly woman or a very strange man.

“Lord Varys,” greeted Lyan drily. Strange man it was, then. Varys. The Lord of Whisperers. Somehow, Benjen had expected him to look different.

“Ser Lyan. Lord Benjen. Staying long in the capital? I would have thought that the weather was much too hot for you in the South.”

“I have gotten used to the climate after all these years.”

Varys raised an eyebrow and nodded pleasantly.

“Yes, I imagine you have at that. An admirable son you have here, Lord Benjen.”

“I know, Lord Varys.”

“Nevertheless, the maesters do say that there will be a heat surge soon enough. You will want to escape it before it hits.”

“Is that so?”

“Just so. Good day to you.” He smiled at them and walked past, disappearing behind a corner.

“The most dangerous man in this entire city, perhaps the whole realm,” commented Lyan after Varys was gone.

“And does he often give you weird warnings about the weather?”

Lyan stood quietly for a while, gaze distant before he finally frowned, eyes catching Benjen’s.

“Half the words out of Varys’ mouth are lies…”

“The other half?”

“Misdirections. In any case, we should leave the capital as quickly as we can after the feast. To be here when Varys does not want us to be — for whatever reasons — is not a good idea.”

It was that warning, that insight, that came to Benjen’s mind later on as they sat in the Hand’s solar, partaking in a midday meal with Ned’s old foster father.

“…and so I would ask you to stay a bit longer. The King is in a strange mood of late — and he holds you in high regard, Lyan.”

How had Varys known? Had he?

“I fear we cannot,” he stated firmly, putting his knife down next to the plate of well-seasoned duck. “While we are honored that King Robert thinks so well of Lyan, you must understand that my wife is most anxious to see her son again after so many years apart. Obara would not forgive any delays, be they royal or not. Surely you understand, Lord Hand; if your own wife were in the same position with your son…”

Arryn winced, clearly envisioning the scenario and not finding it pleasant at all, then looked into his cup of wine in what Benjen perceived as shame.

“Yes, yes,” the man muttered, “you are right, of course.” Suddenly, he was the very image of an old man, far past his prime and so very tired. Benjen shifted in discomfort, but the moment passed and the conversation turned to other things.

Though as they were leaving, Benjen thought he heard the Hand whisper the following to himself: “Eamon will have to do…”

Curiouser and curiouser. He was not used to all this going-behind-the-back and veiled warnings that made only a general kind of sense — if they made sense at all. The discomfort that he had begun to feel since the start of his journey was now a constant companion.

“Where is Olyvar?” he asked his son when they returned to their rooms.

“Preparing.”

“Preparing?”

Lyan nodded.

“Just in case.”

Hopefully, whatever this “in case” was would not happen. They would be leaving the day after tomorrow and, gods willing, neither he nor his son would ever see King’s Landing again.

________________________________________________________________________

The news came early the next day. Jon Arryn had fallen ill and the maester was saying that it was serious. A sudden illness? Certainly, the man had not looked well when they met him yesterday, but neither had he seemed in danger of dying.

“We should leave today,” Olyvar argued as soon as they heard about the Hand’s condition.

“No.” Lyan shook his head grimly. “We cannot. Deviation would mean admission — and that we cannot allow.”

“We should have left right after we heard the Spider’s warning.”

“And, what, Olyvar? Turned admission into certainty? That warning came conveniently late; too late.”

“We are not at fault in whatever this is.”

Lyan snorted.

“Guilt is not the issue here, Father. Image and perception were always more important. The earliest we can leave is tomorrow morning. We’ll have to make our excuses to King Robert before we go — I doubt he’ll have much taste for a feast, in any case — and hope that he’ll not have reason to delay us until the funeral.”

“The funeral?”

“Jon Arryn’s funeral.”

The wait was agonizing. King Robert was sitting at his foster father’s side and not leaving for anything. Meanwhile, silence and fear ruled in the corridors of the Red Keep. Servants whispered of the King’s temper and nobles watched with keen eyes as events unfolded, searching for whatever advantage that would fall into their laps. It was an ugly world that Benjen did not want to have any part in.

The next morning, early on, he had the first argument with his son that he could remember.

“No, I will go,” he said, watching the horribly impassive lines on Lyan’s face. Was he furious? Sad? Concerned? Benjen didn’t know.

“Father, I know King Robert better. He will listen to me…”

“— Or he might want his “Little Ned” to stay a while longer, distressed as he is. Would you chance that, son?”

“Father…”

“No, Lyan. Let me do this. I followed your lead until now, but trust your father to manage a single conversation with the King. If I cannot convince him, I will come back and let you go.”

“…Alright.”

Benjen smiled, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed. That stubborn set of mouth, the crossed arms — all that was pure Obara. And if the boy was anything like Obara, he’d say or do something that would end up with his spear in the man’s gut.

“I am proud of you, my boy; the way that you handle these people, that you handled your situation. You are a grown man, I know, but let your old father at least help you somewhat with this little task. That’s what family is there for — to help and look out for each other.”

“I…understand, Father. Just…take someone with you.”

“I will. And you keep preparing our departure.”

With a last smile, he took one of his men, Ron, with him and they made their way to the Hand’s Tower, hopefully for the last time. Beside men of the Vale, the tower was crawling with both the Kingsguard and Gold Cloaks. But for all that activity, it was strangely silent, as if the King’s men were afraid to utter a sound lest they disturb their sovereign.

“Please announce us to the King,” Benjen quietly asked the Kingsguard, Ser Mandon Moore, who just nodded, face as unmoving as stone, and went inside.

“What?! Benjen Stark?! Let him come in!” They heard King Robert’s voice say and waited for Ser Mandon to come out again.

“The King will see you now,” the knight announced when he was outside the Hand’s bedroom again.

“Please take care to not upset His Grace, Lord Stark,” added Ser Arys Oakheart, who stood on the other side of the door. This one Benjen liked better than the stoic Valeman Moore. “The King is deeply affected by the Hand’s condition.”

“Of course. I will not take up much of his time.”

Benjen nodded to the knights, then entered. How to best tell the King? Ned had always told him that Robert Baratheon’s temper was unpredictable and with the Hand in such a state…

Beside him, Ron yelped loudly, hand suddenly rising as he pointed at something in front of them. Benjen followed it with his eyes and blanched. There, next to the bed of the pale Lord Arryn a figure was hunched over. A dagger was rammed into the back of it, rivulets of blood running down the golden doublet. His crown was set strangely on the dark hair, somewhat crooked and glinting harshly in the sunlight. It looked almost like it would fall off any second now.

King Robert Baratheon was dead.

“By the Gods!” hissed Ron, hand instinctively going to his sword.

Benjen’s mind, numb for precious moments, sped up again, heart beating quickly as his thoughts jumped to the only possible conclusion. They heard the King speak before they went in and a minute later, when they entered, he was dead.

“We have to get out of here — now!”

He turned around, with a hand pulling Ron along.

“Not a word,” Benjen warned in a whisper.

They walked out, nodding calmly to the Kingsguard, and he had to force himself not to run. Enemy territory. They were in enemy territory. Nobody would believe them that they were not the assassins.

They were on the lowest level of the tower when they heard a commotion above.

“ASSASSINS! THE WOLVES KILLED THE KING!”

The roared accusation echoed everywhere. Around them, the guards reacted too quickly, hands going to their weapons. Next to him, Benjen saw Ron reach for his in an instinctive movement, but once again his hand snapped out, stopping his comrade.

“No. There are too many of them,” he muttered, his eyes glancing around, seeing Princess Myrcella’s shocked eyes before she ran out of the front door.

“We did not kill the King!” Benjen announced loudly.

“Then you will explain why I found him dead,” Ser Moore said from behind them, coming down the stairs, his sword at the ready, “when he was still alive when I announced your visit.”

There was nothing to defend himself with. The truth…nobody would believe the truth. How could a man die in a well-guarded, closed room if not by the hands of the visitors he received?

“The Starks are traitors,” stated Ser Arys grimly, sounding so damnably honest and grieved and betrayed that Benjen would have believed him himself if he didn’t know better. Instead, he saw history repeating itself.

Once before Starks had been declared traitors.

Once before two sons of the wolves had been in King’s Landing, only to receive death instead of justice.

Then, the realm had been swept away in a wave of Fire and Blood.

Now, there would only be Death and Fury.

Lyan…the sob rose in his throat, but he didn’t let it escape. Lyan…he had failed his son.

Again.

“Take them to the Black Cells.”

Darkness fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's Part 2 done. Watch out for Part 3, "The Blue Weirwood", in the future. :D


End file.
